Master Manipulator
by Guildsister
Summary: Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play, Hogan said once to Klink. But who in the series are Tinker, Evers, and Chance? Who is the master manipulator of them all?
1. Chapter 1

**Master Manipulator**

The return of this story. This is an edited version of the original. Past readers of "Master Manipulator" will not find any new content, but new readers will, hopefully, find a sleeker, more cleanly-structured story. Originally written/posted in 2005.

* * *

This is the story of Hogan and Klink and their developing relationship throughout the time of the show and beyond, but primarily it's Klink's story with a sometimes radical reinterpretation of his character that still draws off the canon portrayal. The story attempts to cover the entire span of the TV series, citing many of the episodes in, roughly, the order they aired. Dialog and scenes from the episodes are intertwined and reinterpreted throughout, with all due gratitude to the original authors and creators. Any fanfic writer is welcome to use any original character, scene, or scenario in this story in any way desired—sequels or new stories--no need to ask my permission.

* * *

Advisory:

While only mild English curse words are used, there are several very strong German curse words used--be advised. Any important German dialog will be translated. Untranslated German words are only exclamatory expressions.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

These are the saddest of possible words:  
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."  
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,  
Tinker and Evers and Chance.  
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,  
Making a Giant hit into a double –  
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:  
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

_By Franklin Pierce __Adams_  
_New York__ Evening Mail __July 10, 19__10_

The plane shuddered violently, making a noise Hogan had never heard from it before. Then the controls went to mush and suddenly Hogan found himself living the very scenario he'd drilled into his men time and again.

Somehow it was different when it was real.

Hogan struggled in vain for any hint of control over the falling plane. None. Scheiße, he thought sharply, using the word to himself that he _never_ used out loud.

A frightened shout came over the shriek of tearing aluminum as the Fortress tried to rip herself apart. Hogan gritted his teeth. Abandoning the useless controls, he throttled back on the starboard engines while pushing the port. He felt the plane's attitude change.

"Bail out," he yelled, fighting the throttles, trying to buy seconds for his crew.

Unlocking his seatbelt, Hogan quickly checked his chute harness. Grabbing his co-pilot, he dragged him out of the cockpit. Alive? Dead? Hogan didn't know. No time to check. A glance around the plane. No stragglers. Good boys. Followed orders quick and without question. Not that anyone would question wanting to get out of this bird.

As Hogan threw his co-pilot out of the plane, he yanked the man's ripcord. He'd probably die--if he wasn't dead already--but at least he had a chance.

With last flick of a glance around the bomber, Hogan's contingency plan for just this occasion flashed through his mind. Frankly, the plan was much more appealing as a contingency than a reality. So it was with a wry grin on his face, Colonel Hogan leapt into the flame-filled night.

* * *

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad… being shot down in Germany, Hogan considered hopefully. It could just work out. Yup. Could be.

Being greeted first thing by a pretty girl… that had to go in the plus column. Step one of all his plans involved a pretty girl. Not too bad. Not too bad at all, what with the scent of the edelweiss in the air, and the moonlight bathing her golden curls as they cascaded down to very voluptuous…

Hogan swallowed hard and twitched his hands nervously higher. It was hard to concentrate on the pretty girl behind the big verdammt shotgun she had aimed squarely at his chest.

With his best disarming smile, Hogan murmured, "Hello Goldilocks."

It didn't disarm her. Instead she leveled the ancient shotgun more firmly, glaring at him while she shouted for her papa.

And then Papa Bear and Baby Bear were there and Papa Bear--a grizzled, no-nonsense sort--had another shotgun pointed at him. Baby Bear didn't have a gun, just a pitchfork. Hogan gulped. He'd heard _those_ stories. The boy--Goldilocks' kid brother, he figured--was a gangly, sneering snot who looked like he stepped off a Hitler Youth poster. Staring Baby Bear down coldly, he thought, _smile all you want now. Another year and you'll be cannon fodder at the Russian Front. _

"Komm mit," Papa Bear growled, waving the shotgun.

Just about the same words in English as in German. Hogan started cautiously the direction Papa indicated. Hogan wasn't about to let on he understood any German, let alone that he was entirely fluent. Even in his own army, in these times, that was a big no-no. Few outside of the High Command knew.

Taking a step, Hogan winced and stumbled as his left leg tried to collapse under him. It took all his will power not to lower his hands and grab his leg. He didn't. A chest full of shotgun pellets would not improve this evening.

"Komm," Papa Bear repeated, but sounded a touch less threatening.

Must be shrapnel, Hogan thought as he limped forward. He didn't remember how or when it happened. On the plane? Flak in the air? The numbing shock was wearing off, leaving each step a stab by hot knives. He silently ran through his entire repertoire of German curses as he hobbled toward the cottage, then started on the English collection, which had grown in past months thanks to the RAF boys.

"Oh, God," he ended aloud as he sank down by the table. The Kraut family with the shotguns stirred. Hogan froze. Okay… no blaspheming in words that sound too much the same in both languages.

Hogan forced Papa Bear to pantomime the angry instruction for him to put his hands flat on the table's top before he complied. Don't understand German, Hogan chanted to himself. Don't speak it. Don't react to it. It was incredibly hard not to react when Papa told Baby Bear to run off and fetch the Gestapo. Ah, scheiße … he did react, throwing a genuinely frightened glance at Papa on the word 'Gestapo'. Everyone knew that word.

Papa scowled but seemed, to Hogan, a hint regretful. Not quite regretful enough to let him go, but enough to lower the shotgun barrel to a less ready-to-fire position. Now if Goldilocks would only take her finger off the trigger, maybe Hogan could start breathing again.

Mama Bear bustled out from the shadows. Hogan liked her at once. Not only was she a round, motherly sort, but she immediately began berating Papa and Goldilocks for keeping the poor boy--Hogan--terrified he was going to be shot at any moment. Hogan met Mama's eyes, trying hard to look like everyone's very pathetic son. She smiled sadly at him.

"Oh, the poor boy," Mama went on, clucking sorrowfully as she clanked pans in the kitchen. "We should feed him."

"He was shot down five minutes ago," Papa growled. "He's not starving."

"Not yet," Mama countered. "But who knows when he'll next see a decent meal."

Hogan didn't like the sound of that.

"Lisel, put that gun down," Mama ordered. Goldi--Lisel--didn't, but at least she took her finger off the trigger. Hogan let out a little sigh of relief.

"No," Papa was saying. "No food. The Gestapo will be here in a few minutes." Hogan's eyes flicked over to Papa again on the word 'Gestapo.' The big man scowled once more, but now appeared a trifle apologetic. _Hmm… not fans of the Bad Guys, huh big fella?_

"Well," Mama huffed. "At least I'm going to see to his leg." Papa grunted assent.

Mama came over beside Hogan cautiously. He smiled reassuringly at her. She told him--in German--what she wanted to do, speaking very slowly and clearly. He stared at her blankly until she motioned her intents, then he nodded.

The shotguns leveled again as Mama Bear knelt beside him and gently raised his trouser leg. Hogan's breath hissed through his teeth as she pulled the sticky woolen underwear--worn to protect against the freezing high altitudes--away from the wounds, and it was a struggle not to move his hands from the tabletop. One look at Papa's and Lisel's expressions told him it would be profoundly unwise to do so.

Hogan glanced down. Five jagged holes in his calf. None looked too serious. Gently, Mama cleaned away the blood. A piece of shrapnel showed in one of the wounds. Mama met Hogan's eyes and mimed what she intended to do, all the while murmuring soothing things in a language she assumed he didn't understand. Hogan's hands clenched into fists as she pulled out the metal shard. For the next one, she needed tweezers. Hogan needed a stiff drink, but none was forthcoming.

Then Mama clucked sadly and told him, while miming the words, that the other shards were too deep. She couldn't get them out. Then she showed him the iodine bottle, pulling out the stopper to show him the dark liquid, waiting for his nod before putting the stinging antiseptic on the wounds.

To distract himself during the procedure, Hogan stared at Lisel. Shotgun or no, she was entirely stareable. He worked out an alternate version to how this evening had gone, one with he and Lisel proclaiming their undying love by the edelweiss. A small smile crept over his face as he watched her. Usually it worked on the girls, but this Fräulein was ice to the core.

Clearly annoyed at his study of her, Lisel snapped, "You shouldn't be doing that for him, Mama. He deserves to suffer. He's a murderer."

It took everything Hogan had not to react to that. Instead he flinched at Mama's work with the iodine.

"Hush, Lisel," Papa rumbled.

"He is," Lisel insisted. "He was part of the bombing tonight and you know it. Murderer. Killing our children." She twitched the shotgun barrel and Hogan couldn't help but meet her eyes, though he pretended not to understand her words. "What did you bomb tonight?" she demanded. "A school? An orphanage?"

Hogan inwardly seethed. _I'd like to show you what the Blitz did to London, lady,_ he thought, _or to Coventry_. He glanced down again. Mama Bear seemed on the verge of tears as she snuggly bound his leg in clean clothes. She eased his trouser leg back down and rocked back on her heels, looking up at him. Hogan murmured, "Thanks."

It might have been the first time Mama Bear heard the word, but she understood it. "Bitte," she answered.

* * *

The black uniforms chilled Hogan in a way he hadn't expected. His reaction caught him off guard and Hogan feared he let something the Gestapo must never see show through for a moment before he clamped down his control again. One of the Gestapo wore a SS uniform, a captain. The two others yanked Hogan up out of the chair. _Don't resist. Just stay alive. _Unfamiliar faces. Very familiar evil on them, matching Baby Bear's malicious glee.

Roughly searched, Hogan saw Papa's and Lisel's eyes widen as the Gestapo thug set Hogan's pistol on the table. It was followed by a pocket knife and a straight-blade knife. They didn't seem interested in anything else he had on him.

His hands were jerked behind his back and cuffed. The captain then approached Hogan, pistol raised, and for a moment, Hogan did believe he was going to die. Glaring at the Kraut without blinking, he sure as hell wasn't going to let this Esel get any satisfaction out of it.

Then the moment passed and the guards dragged Hogan outside to a waiting van. Through the door of the cottage, Hogan caught one last glimpse of the expressions on the faces of Goldilocks and the Three Bears--Mama, wistfully sad; Papa, solemn and serious; Baby, maliciously pleased; and Goldi, coldly contemptuous. Hogan filed that information, as well as his best guess as to the family's location in his memory before the guards slammed the door of the van closed.

* * *

Name, rank, and serial number… Colonel Hogan had ground that into his men over and over. Nothing else. Not your squadron number. Not your crewmate's names. Not even if they say it's just so they can notify the families. Not your hometown. Not your dog's name. Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number…

Hogan didn't even get to say that much. No one asked. The captain reached under his shirt, pulling out Hogan's dogtags and read the information to the desk clerk from those. The clerk wrote it down and the guards unceremoniously hauled Hogan off to a cell. Not a single question was asked. The guards were forceful, certainly, but not particularly rough. It wasn't what he had expected of the Gestapo.

Up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor lined with steel doors, Hogan was led. His long-thought-out plan of sneaking across Germany and being back to England in time for the next bombing run appeared fairly improbable at this point. His _other_ plan, which was somewhat more grandiose and had the Brass suggesting he might need psychiatric help, seemed even more improbable just now. Of course, that plan always had seemed improbable. At the moment, though, 'impossible' was definitely in contention.

He only had a glimpse of the interior of the cell as the cuffs were removed and he was shoved in. Bare concrete. No bed. Not even a bench. A bucket in one corner. Nothing else. Bang! With the scraping of the key in the lock, the cell plunged into darkness.

Breathing heavily, Hogan felt his way to one of the walls and sank down slowly to the floor. What time was it? It hadn't been too long. The others wouldn't even be back to England. They wouldn't know yet, at base, Colonel Hogan's plane was one of those never to return. They'd count them in as they landed, searching the sky for the stragglers, the damaged planes limping in slowly, straining to hear the distant engines. Counting. They'd come up short on the count.

Unbelievable. Hogan rubbed his hands over his face. He spoke German like a native and knew the country well, both first-hand and from intelligence briefings. He was well-equipped and not too badly injured. He'd planned for every contingency. Yet he'd gotten caught and ended up in a Gestapo jail inside of an hour after bailing out. He closed his eyes and sighed. If _he_ couldn't manage it, it didn't speak well for anyone else's chances. He tried not to think about the rest of his crew. Or the other crews. A lot of planes wouldn't be coming home tonight.

Hogan sighed heavily and leaned his head back. Yes… they needed help. Help here on the ground. The gears in his head started to turn, churning out and honing ideas. Then he eased down flat on the floor. He'd get right on that tomorrow.

* * *

Three, very long, days later the cell door opened and a guard snapped, "Raus!"

He didn't need that invitation twice. Even an interrogation would be better than this waiting. Expecting a dank and terrifying Gestapo interrogation chamber to be his next stop, Hogan was pleasantly surprised when they emerged into the building's antechamber. There waited a Luftwaffe major and two privates. Hearing the conversations, he realized the Luftwaffe major had arrived to take custody of him. Hogan could have kissed him.

Wincing at the unaccustomed sunlight, Hogan struggled between the two rigidly marching Luftwaffe guards as they led him toward a waiting staff car. Even the Gestapo guards had moved slower.

"Slow down," Hogan snapped. His leg screamed at him with each step.

"Langsamer," a voice behind him called. The guards immediately slowed their pace.

Hogan twisted to look at the Luftwaffe major. "You speak English?"

"Ja," the major said shortly, measuringly examining Hogan. "You are injured?" he asked when they arrived at the car. His English was stilted but understandable.

"Yeah," Hogan said. "My leg has shrapnel in it." It was a surprising relief to be able to talk to someone. Anyone. About anything. Hmm… okay, that was something to keep in mind. _Name, rank, and serial number… _

The major blinked, his expression unreadable. "It will be seen to when we arrive." Shifting to German he told the guards, "Put him in the car."

Seated in back with the major, Hogan ventured, as they started off down the boulevard, "So… where are we going, Fritz?" If they didn't want to question him, maybe he could question them. Seemed fair.

The major threw him a startled glance. "How is it you know my name?" he demanded.

Hogan twitched a grin. "Lucky guess," he said. _Now just tell me the ones in the front seat are named Hans and Jerry and we're all set,_ he thought.

"Auswertestelle West," the major answered Hogan's question. "You know of it?" Hogan nodded. "Ja," the major said, still scrutinizing him. "I think it is not a secret where captured fliers are first taken. The evaluation center…" _Interrogation center,_ Hogan mentally corrected him. "…hospital, and the transit camp, where you will be before being sent to a Luft Stalag."

"Sounds like loads of fun," Hogan muttered.

Very seriously, the major said, "The Luftwaffe is not the Gestapo."

_You're all evil Nazi Kraut bastards to me,_ Hogan thought loudly as he smiled agreeably at the major.

* * *

The strip search was fun… in a perverse sort of way. The nature of army life tended to squelch any sense of modesty, and those searching him were professionals, utterly disinterested in anything but methodically accomplishing their task, so there was no sense of humiliation to the process, just amusement to their reactions to some of his accessories.

Dumping Hogan's watch and wallet into a box, one of the men conducting the search informed him, "You will have your personal items--your _legitimate_ personal items--returned to you when you are sent to a Luft Stalag." He hesitated over a set of keys on a ring, raising a quizzical eyebrow to Hogan. "Automobile keys?"

"Motorcycle," Hogan corrected.

"You have a motorcycle in England?" he asked.

"No. It's in the States," Hogan said.

The German scowled at Hogan, then at the keys. "And you carry the keys while flying over Deutschland." He sighed and dropped the keys in the box. He looked up at Hogan again. "Americans are…" He stopped, shaking his head.

"Crazy?" Hogan filled in helpfully.

A miniscule smile twitched at the man's lips. "Ja. That is the word."

Full smiles seemed to be a rare thing in the Third Reich, Hogan considered. And they think we're crazy.

* * *

They escorted him to the hospital next. Hogan hadn't been at all sure they would and he didn't relish the thought of having the shrapnel left in his leg, possibly crippling him. He also hoped he'd get a chance to look through the wards; to see if any of his men were here, but two guards led him straight to an exam room near the entrance.

It was like being taken to the doctor when you were five years old, Hogan decided, when you had no say in anything and didn't know what was going on. Except he doubted there'd be a lollipop at the end. No one talked to him or explained anything, just pushed and pulled and pointed until he did what they wanted. He wasn't sure any of them spoke even a word of English. Directed to an exam table, he sat with his leg outstretched, a guard on either side. A doctor and a male nurse/orderly (_More's the pity_, Hogan thought. He'd hoped there'd be a female nurse.) entered. Never once looking Hogan in the face, the doctor just poked at his leg and began issuing orders. It was disconcerting in a way Hogan had never expected, this being treated as an object… or a prisoner.

At least he understood what they were saying. For a wounded flyer who only spoke English, this must be terrifying.

The orderly pushed up the leg of his trousers, then clipped off the bandages Mama Bear had wrapped around. Hogan jerked as the dried blood on the cloth pulled at the wounds. As the doctor poked and peered, the orderly pushed Hogan down flat, loosing his shirt sleeve and pushing it up his arm--to take his blood pressure Hogan supposed. Then…

"Oh, hey, there!" Hogan yelped and pulled his arm away. "What the hell is that?"

The orderly, who was really far too large and brawny to be called a nurse in Hogan's admittedly biased estimation, had a syringe with a big verdammt needle on the end and was about to stick him in the arm.

"No. No," Hogan said emphatically, fighting not to shift over to German to make it entirely clear they were not to put whatever that was into him. Language didn't matter--they got the message. The orderly straightened. Then the doctor made a curt gesture, barked an order, and the guards were holding him down and that needle was sliding into his arm and the plunger was pressing downward and…

"Mmmm…" Hogan relaxed backward with a sigh. The restraining hands lifted. Okay, no need to worry. Hell, no worries at all. Blinking, Hogan turned his head to admire the ceiling. The movement made him dizzy. But it was a nice dizzy. Oh, hey… the doctor was working on his leg. How 'bout that? Hardly felt a thing. Didn't hurt anymore. That was nice too. He blinked again. Didn't want to fall asleep here. Too important to pay attention to…

_Clink_. Metal hitting metal. A chunk of the shrapnel. Distantly, he heard the doctor say it appeared to be aluminum. Huh. A piece of his plane. Be nice to keep it as a souvenir.

_Clink_. One more to go. Hogan blinked hard, fighting the lulling pull. Even through the haze, a lingering thought kept nagging at him. Being helpless, having no control over so much as the next minute of your life. Yeah, he got it now. This was what being a prisoner _really_ meant. Definitely have to do something about that…

* * *

Hogan's eyes blinked open. For just a moment he thought he might be in the base hospital in England. The Fortress had managed to limp back home with her wounded pilot. The last days had just been a bizarre nightmare. Then he heard voices and he wasn't in England any more.

Turning his head, he saw he was still on the exam table. His leg was neatly wrapped. He moved it experimentally. Not bad. Of course, he was still pretty doped up. No doubt it would throb later.

Hmm… there was something he noticed when he looked around. What was it? Suddenly Hogan became much more awake. The guards were gone. He was alone.

No, they were at the door. He saw the back of one as he shifted, eclipsing the doorway. Two guards. He heard the other's voice. Yeah, they were both out there. Pat and Mike. Or Hans and Fritz. Whatever the hell it was he'd tagged them. The important thing was, they weren't watching him.

His eyes darted around. Was there another way out besides the door? A window. Slightly ajar. If he moved very quietly…

Easing off the exam table, Hogan paused to test his weight on his injured leg. Not bad. Not bad at all. For all the lingering effects of the drug made him dopey, it also let him walk without a noticeable limp. Okay, now props…

Ah, bless that terse old doctor, he'd left his white lab coat. A counter nearby provided one of those white cloth caps to cover his hair. One more thing to make the outfit complete… Ah, a clipboard and pen. People were clipboards were busy, too busy to stop to ask if they were escaping POWs.

The window creaked slightly. Hogan froze, but the guards didn't turn. Dropping to the ground, on his good leg, Hogan crouched behind the bushes a moment, deciding his next move. The guards would discover him gone at any moment and raise the alarm. They'd assume he was trying to get away. They would look outwards, away from the hospital. So he'd go inwards.

Waiting for a instant no one was looking, Hogan stepped briskly out onto the path and marched up to the front door of the hospital. The exam room was the first door off to the left. His soon-to-be-in-deep-trouble guards chatted with the orderly. Not a one so much as glanced at him as he strode by.

Hogan rounded the corner and entered the stairwell. Whew! There was the first hurdle. He sank back against the wall for a moment to catch his breath and let his racing heart slow down. He knew perfectly well the Germans might shoot him if they caught him, but--damn!--that was fun.

That thrill was enough to carry him up several flights of stairs. By the final flight Hogan's leg started objecting to his callous treatment of the freshly repaired wounds. Nothing he could do about that, though. Or was there?

Come on, Hogan, think. You're a doctor. Or near enough at the moment. Confidently striding over to a medicine cabinet, he opened the door and rummaged through the contents.

"May I help you find something, Herr Doctor?" a lilting voice behind him asked.

"Yes, nurse," Hogan answered smoothly. He turned and gave her his best knock-'em-dead smile. This time it worked. She positively melted. "I'm looking for some aspirin. Bit of a headache," he said.

"Of course." She reached down a shelf from where he'd been hunting and handed him the bottle.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, smiling at her again. She hurried to fetch him a glass of water. Yes, indeed, things were definitely taking a turn for the better here.

Gulping down the aspirin (and sneaking a few into his pocket for later), Hogan managed to deflect his new admirer, saying he wanted to make the rounds, checking on the patients. "No, no, don't let me distract you from your duties." He lowered his voice. "But perhaps later, when you're off work, a little dinner, perhaps?" She blushed and fluttered her eyelids charmingly at him before returning to her work. All good. Able to charm the girls again, at least the ones without shotguns, and apparently his accent in German passed muster. All good.

Feeling more cheery than he had in days, Hogan set off down the rows of beds filled with wounded Allied fliers. The cheeriness faded as he saw the extent of their injuries, as well as their numbers, but the care they were receiving seemed decent. Fritz's words about the Luftwaffe not being the Gestapo played through his mind. Carefully, he studied each man's chart, memorizing the names as he went.

On the fourth bed, he heard a commotion outside. Leaning out the window, Hogan grinned as he watched his two guards run around frantically. Maybe he'd rename them Stan and Ollie. As he expected, the search radiated outward from the hospital building. By the time he'd visited all the beds on each floor he should be able to walk out of the hospital without any notice at all.

Recognizing many of the names on the charts, Hogan grimly made a tally of those injured in his last misplayed bombing mission. What had he done wrong? His plans weren't supposed to fail.

"Oh, thank God," he whispered as he picked up the chart at the end of a row two floors down. It was his co-pilot. He'd have never recognized him, so swathed in bandages was he. Unconscious. Just as well. Hogan studied his chart. The man was direly hurt, but might survive. That was one, Hogan sighed. Now where were the other eight? Hogan sat down on a chair by his co-pilot's bed, squeezed his eyes closed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Colonel?" Hogan heard the low whisper from the next bed. He glanced over, putting his finger to his lips to hush the man. Turning sharply to see if anyone had heard, Hogan scanned the ward. None of the nurses noticed. Shifting the chair around, he pulled it up closer to the other bed.

"Hey, Jim," Hogan whispered, grinning. His navigator.

"When did you join the German medical corps, Colonel?" the lieutenant asked.

"Haven't. I'm escaping. You up for a go?" Hogan asked hopefully. If he could get at least one of his men back home…

Jim shook his head sadly. "I'm not going anywhere for quite a while. Leg's shattered. But you give the Krauts hell for me, okay?"

Hogan nodded solemnly. "I will. What about the others?"

The bombardier had been captured unharmed. Beyond that, Jim didn't know. They'd been too spread out when they bailed out to meet up before the Germans captured them. "You better get going now, Colonel," Jim finished.

"Be seeing you in Piccadilly," Hogan promised, giving his hand a squeeze. It was hard to walk away and leave two of his men behind, but it's what he had to do. Three accounted for. The other six…?

The doctor's lounge was empty. Hogan paused to rest and drink their coffee--the real thing--before deciding his leg really ached far too much to consider walking. He'd flown into the country. It just wouldn't be appropriate to walk out. If not a plane, at least the Germans could provide him with a car.

And the good doctors had fine taste in cars. Hogan found Mercedes keys hanging in the third doctor's locker he tried. There weren't many cars parked outside. It would be easy to find.

Confidence. Assurance. Doctorly arrogance. Just act like you belong, Hogan, and no one will notice.

And they didn't. No one gave him a second glance on the way out. Amazing what you could get away with just by acting like you ought to be doing it. People saw what they wanted to see, he decided as he reached for the car's door handle. This was damned fun, good as a bombing run. Now if he could just figure out how to terminate this little adventure with something blowing up, the fun would be complete.

"Colonel Hogan."

Hogan closed his eyes and groaned. The major. Fritz. Scheiße.

"Drop the automobile keys," he ordered. Hogan let them fall, his heart falling with them. "Turn around."

Cautiously, Hogan complied. The major had a pistol trained on him. He wore an expression that managed to roam somewhere between amused and angry while still stoically bland. Fritz shook his head slowly.

"You caused quite an excitement, Colonel," the major said. "Now, remove the hat and the coat." He emphasized the order by gesturing with the pistol.

Hogan pulled off the white doctor's cap and shrugged out of the lab coat. He laid them on the hood of the car, never taking his eyes off Fritz as he did so. Hogan hooked his thumbs into his jacket pockets and leaned against the car. Fritz's expression shifted toward the amused end of his stoic spectrum. With his free hand he made a small waving gesture. Hogan sighed and raised his hands. So much for this dramatic escape.

* * *

There was a great deal of shouting and running around and people blaming other people and stammering of denials and somewhere in the midst of it Hogan noticed that no one had been particularly assigned to watch him.

And no one particularly was.

Very carefully, he eased a half step back. Then another. Slowly he lowered his hands and no one threatened to shoot him. Fritz shouted at Stan and Ollie who each pointed at the other and at the orderly. Others got into the act as the searchers were called back. Another half-step.

One more and he had a fair-sized tree between him and the gathered crowd. Now he'd just turn and casually saunter away.

A bullet kicked up the dirt by his feet. The pistol's report punctuated an immediate silence over the crowd. Hogan froze and raised his hands again.

"I am really growing to dislike you, Fritz," Hogan told the major as he walked up, pistol again aimed Hogan's way. Belatedly dutiful, Stan and Ollie grabbed his arms.

To the guards, but holding Hogan's eye, Fritz said, "Please restrain the colonel so he does not feel the need to wander away again." The major said it in English for Hogan's benefit. To the guards he only snapped, "Cuff him."

With his hands locked behind his back, and Ollie gripping the chain as though his very life depended on it--and maybe it did--Hogan decided that the escape options remaining for today were probably pretty limited. With a sigh, he resigned himself to spending one more day in German custody. But just one.

* * *

After the abject desolation of the Gestapo jail, the interrogation center's cell seemed positively luxurious. An actual bed--though the concept of 'comfort' hadn't gone into its design--a small table and chair, and enough room to pace. The window took most of Hogan's attention at first. Barred and shuttered.

Sitting down on the bed, Hogan leaned against the wall and contemplated everything he'd seen so far. The biggest weakness lay in assumptions. Assumptions were made about a prisoner's expected behavior, and variations weren't handled with any sort of imagination or initiative. The guards operated on strict patterns of routine. Hogan only had to find the breach in the routine, drive a wedge in, take advantage and he'd be on his way. Piece of cake…

Early the next morning two guards appeared at the door, ordering him out. Hmm… he'd seen other prisoners being escorted within the prison when he was brought in. They only merited one guard each. But they didn't cuff him, so that was something. As he limped between them down the long corridor, Hogan decided two guards could be an advantage. If he could find a way to play them off against each other…

Hogan entered the spacious office he was escorted to, finding himself being watched with intensity by the plump and pleasant-looking man seated on the other side of a table.

"Please sit, Colonel," the man said with a smile, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

First giving the room a thorough examination, Hogan pulled the chair back a bit and sat, studying the German carefully. He gave one of his patented "You're gonna like me" grins.

The man's eyes shone with lively interest as they played over Hogan. _This is a man who enjoys his work,_ Hogan thought. _I just wonder how much he enjoys it._

"You've already lived up to your reputation, Colonel Hogan," the interrogator said. "Resourceful, innovative, and impossible… ahem, _almost_ impossible to defeat." The interrogator's English was perfect, Hogan noted, with a slight British accent.

"I am Ulrich Hardt, senior interrogator of Allied fliers for the Luftwaffe. You may call me Ulrich, Herr Hardt, or--" he grinned "--any colorful American idiom you find appropriate. I will not take offense. And you are?"

Finally! "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt grinned even broader. "Of course." He leaned back, his eyes twinkling at Hogan. "Let us have no pretense here, Colonel. We both know perfectly well what this meeting is about. I intend to be completely forthright with you and you, in turn, I expect will be completely un-forthright with me. It's the way this game is played."

"Game?" Hogan couldn't help but echo.

Beaming, Hardt said, "Yes, game. The kind of game I know you enjoy. Strategy and tactics. Give and take. Tricks and deception. I think it will be fun for both of us," he paused and rolled his eyes thoughtfully, "to a point."

_Yeah, Hardt, and that point would be…? _

The interrogator stood and moved to a side table. He poured out two cups of what looked and smelled to be real coffee. Hardt set one cup on the table in front of Hogan. "Cream? Sugar?" Hardt asked.

_Trap_, his by-the-book- training screamed. Hogan shook his head. He didn't touch the cup. Bait. Reward. Hogan never did believe in going by-the-book. "Yeah, both. Cream and sugar." Hogan saw Hardt blink and take in this tidbit of data as he poured a generous dollop of cream in the cup and spooned in some sugar. That was too easy, Hogan could see him thinking. For Hogan's part, he decided to play the practical. He might prefer his coffee black, but anything that resembled food wasn't to be turned away lightly.

Then Hogan saw Hardt twig to Hogan's reasoning and nod. Smart man. It all hammered home to Hogan the subtleties and minutia at work here. He had to tread very, very cautiously with Hardt.

Leaning back, Hardt sipped from his cup. Both he and Hogan appraised each other for a quiet minute, then Hardt spoke. "I said I would be forthright with you. I will. All captured air force officers are questioned here. Depending on the information we believe they may have, or that we want, their stays here may be as short as days to as long as months." He stared at Hogan seriously. "I should not be expecting to leave here any time soon, if I were you, Colonel."

Charming, Hogan thought. Hardt went on, "The tactics used in the interrogations vary depending on our evaluation of the subject. Some are immediately threatened with torture." At Hogan's raised eyebrow query, Hardt hastened to add, "But none are actually tortured, I want you to assure you of that. Prisoners here are not physically abused, only threatened. That said, however, techniques to create mental discomfort and stress are readily applied. The cell in which you are housed may be left in total darkness for extended periods, heated or cooled to uncomfortable levels… Simple solitary confinement, I have found, however, is the most effective way to create a conversational atmosphere." He looked at Hogan imploringly. "I sincerely hope I shall not have to order the more uncomfortable conditions to be applied to you, Colonel. I much prefer you to be alert and willing in our talks."

Hogan smiled with perfect insincerity at him and said nothing. Hardt grinned back.

"Of course," the interrogator said. "The talking part is my job. We will be spending many hours each day together for some time to come. If you won't talk about you, you'll have to listen to me talk about myself." He chuckled. "Which may be its own form of torture." Hardt shrugged. "For yourself, Colonel Hogan, you may sit silently. You may recite your name, rank, and serial number as often as you wish. Or you may--as I hope you will--engage in some verbal chess with me."

His face went serious and he leaned forward to add, "But I must warn you, Colonel, at some point, if I show my superiors no results, the matter of your interrogation will be taken out of my hands. The High Command knows who you are and your value as an information source. You are the highest ranking American officer captured thus far, leader of a bomber squadron that has wrecked havoc on our cities and installations." He sighed. "They will not give up on you easily or lightly."

* * *

Ten days… Hogan had to admit he enjoyed this game, and playing it with Ulrich Hardt was great sport. The man was brilliant. They talked on countless subjects, each always trying to extract useful tidbits of information from the other without seeming to do so. Any time Hardt slipped in his subtlety, Hogan promptly countered with his name, rank, and serial number, invariably provoking a laugh and a 'touché' from the interrogator. Were it not for the inevitable guards and locked doors, it would have been almost possible to forget the seriousness of the situation.

"Bravo, Colonel," Hardt greeted him on the tenth day of the interrogation. "I have reams of transcripts of our conversations, gone over with a fine toothed comb by our experts and they all agree you've spoken a great deal and yet said absolutely nothing." Then his face went serious and he sighed. "Unfortunately, this means I must 'raise the stakes' as I told you I must when we began. I'm afraid conditions for you must now become less agreeable."

"Of course, Ulrich," Hogan said, scowling. "Because I've been so enjoying the tiny cell and starvation diet until now." Time to get the hell out of here, Hogan thought.

A trip to the latrine between a pair of guards he'd been particularly working on--both spoke some English--and the short trip turned into a longer one out the door. Security was, as he'd predicted, sloppy at points they didn't expect to be breached.

As he eased away into the darkness, Hogan almost wished he could see Hardt's face tomorrow.

* * *

As the old saying goes, Hogan thought as he knelt in the dirt with his hands folded on top of his head, be careful what you wish…

"You know, Fritz, it's definite," Hogan grumbled, "I really hate you."

The smile that flickered across the major's face was extremely brief. "I believe you, Colonel." Hogan had gotten five miles before the major and his guards caught up with him. No money, no papers, and no civilian clothing definitely put a crimp in Hogan's travel plans. He made a mental note of this fact.

Escaping from Germany really shouldn't be this hard, Hogan thought sullenly as two guards from the growing list who thoroughly despised him hauled him to his feet. He must be doing something wrong.

* * *

The handcuffs stayed on and the lights went out as the guards shoved Hogan back into his cell. _Scheiße. Now how do I get out of this?_

When Hardt greeted him the next day he wore a sorrowful expression. "I have been instructed to inform you, Colonel," he said without preamble, "that any further attempts to escape will be met with the strictest of responses. You will be put in irons and chained to the floor if need be, to keep you here. For now you will remain handcuffed twenty-four hours a day and no English-speaking guards will be assigned to you." His eyes flashed just a hint of anger at Hogan before he contained it.

The interrogator stared down at the table, tapping his fingers on it. Hogan stood still, watching him expressionlessly. He hadn't been offered a chair, nor any of the other pleasantries Hardt had provided before.

"Now, Colonel, you must provide me with some answers…" Hardt began.

Tersely, Hogan recited, "Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt strode past him, jerking the door open. "Guard," he called in German. "Take him back to his cell."

* * *

An indeterminate number of days… He sat in the endless, unvarying, silent darkness and pulled up various plans and schemes he'd had, reworking and revising them. Just as soon as he got out of here…

Then he gave up the attempt at self-delusion and glumly contemplated the darkness. It was easy, too easy, to see nothing but the dark while trapped in it. Defeat. The darkest hour… The Germans seemed unstoppable. Hogan's own successful bombing raids were little more than pin pricks. Defeat? Their darkest hour… The Brits didn't shy away from the thought; didn't try to paint on a rosy glow. They faced the darkness and troubles staunchly. Resolutely. What were the words their cigar-puffing old bastard used? "though…many…may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air… we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."

Hogan smiled to himself. Clasping his hands together to ease the pressure of the cuffs on his wrists, he let more words flow through his mind. "We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might… to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime… what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be."

Defeat? Hmph. To hell with that.

The interrogator, Hardt, appeared positively nervous as Hogan was finally brought into the room. "Colonel..." he began…

"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Hardt nodded. Staring down at the tabletop, he said, "The High Command has ordered you to be turned over to the Gestapo tomorrow for more… rigorous questioning." Pausing a moment, apparently waiting to see if Hogan would speak, Hardt cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he added. Hogan believed him.

To be continued...

* * *

Notes:

Ulrich Hardt is not the name of the actual head interrogator at the Luftwaffe evaluation center, as this character is not meant to accurately represent a single, real historical person.

The Churchill speeches quoted date from 1940 and the Battle of Britain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stared with dismay at the huge file General Burkhalter's messenger delivered. Donnerwetter! Why was the General saddling him with a high security prisoner considered so troublesome he'd been singled out for special handling? Maybe he should start packing for the Russian Front right now and save time. Klink shivered with dread. There was so much at stake and this one single enemy officer could bring it all crashing down into flaming wreckage.

Klink flipped open the file. This was more than the standard prisoner file. Much more. Paging through he saw complete records of dossiers, investigations, interrogations… Donnerwetter. He contemplated the bulk of the file. Who was this officer? An American colonel being sent to an enlisted men's camp… Odd enough on its own. He must be someone's special pet... or hostage.

Klink sorted out the standard prisoner file folder first. And sighed extravagantly. It was marked with a red tab.

Starting with the least distressing of the papers, Klink scanned them. Hogan. An English name, if he wasn't mistaken. Possibly Irish. No matter. Americans were a mongrel breed. Peasants. Home… family… the colonel had provided no information on the 'official' Red Cross forms; appeared to neither speak nor understand German. That wouldn't help keep him in the fence but would make him easier to recapture. Of course, if he was a smart man he'd be learning the language soon enough. Maybe Klink could just keep him locked in the cooler. He seemed a likely candidate to spend most of his time there anyhow. What was it the Geneva Convention said about that?

Four escape attempts in the first month. Three in the first two weeks alone. Splendid, Klink thought bleakly, a red-flagged escape artist.

Shot down near Hamburg… Klink blinked and read the date again. Three months ago. Three months? Where had the colonel been all this time?

Flipping rapidly through the pages, Klink reached the ending pages. Dear Lord… this man had been two months with the Gestapo. Klink swallowed hard. Ah… yes. On his last escape attempt, the American had gotten as far as Düsseldorf before being arrested by the Gestapo. The Gestapo held him for a time before returning him to Luftwaffe custody. Apparently, the Gestapo took advantage of that time to interrogate the colonel themselves. Klink shuddered in blind sympathy.

Records of exactly what took place during those two months were incomplete—the Gestapo kept to their own—but one thing was clear: In two months they had failed to extract any useful information from the colonel.

Klink leaned back and contemplated. They hadn't tortured him. At least not in any way that left marks. He wouldn't have been left alive were that the case. A German civilian, yes, but a high-ranking American officer, no. Not even the Gestapo dare go that far. At least not yet. How rough they could be to the place that stopped just short of what undeniably could be called 'torture' though… Klink shuddered. Two months. Fingering his monocle thoughtfully, Klink considered this might be the reason Burkhalter stepped in to pull the American out of Gestapo custody. Maybe they had sought authorization to resort to extreme measures.

Maybe Klink was not meant to be jailer so much as protector.

From the Gestapo.

Wonderful.

What's more, General Burkhalter had suggested Colonel Klink continue questioning this American! Klink could almost feel the Russian snowflakes falling.

Shuddering again, Klink almost dropped the file. So thick. Glancing through, he saw there were included transcripts of the American's interrogations at the Luftwaffe evaluation center. Interesting… Talkative fellow. How could a man talk so much yet apparently say so little? Curiouser and curiouser.

He sorted out the standard prisoner forms and put them in a separate file, which he set on his desk. The rest he tucked back in the large folder. That folder would not be going into the camp records, Klink decided. He expected he'd be spending many an evening going through it, trying to decipher the mystery of this Colonel Hogan.

* * *

Klink watched the Gestapo pull up in front of his office promptly at noon the next day. Two autos. From the first stepped a major and his aide. From the second, several guards and the American prisoner.

Retreating to his desk, Klink waited nervously for the knock at his office door. The Gestapo major didn't wait for Klink's "come in" before striding into the office.

"Ah, major, a great pleasure…" Klink blustered. He trailed off as the American colonel was led in and brought to a halt in front of his desk. Sergeant Schultz hovered anxiously in the rear.

While the Gestapo major launched into a tirade about the uncooperative prisoner and security precautions Klink was to take, Klink surreptitiously studied the man. His clothes were clean and he was clean-shaven. Of course… The Gestapo and SS liked their prisoners clean. Klink tried to catch the prisoner's eye to get some measure of him. Had they broken him? Quite well he recalled the look in the eyes of some of the soldiers he knew in the Great War… After the defeat… After Versailles… Would the American have that hollow look? But the colonel kept his eyes downcast. It was then Klink had the stunning revelation the American didn't have his eyes downcast merely in beaten submission… He was reading Klink's desk!

As the Gestapo major ranted on, Klink fidgeted with the papers, shifting one to the side while revealing the one that stated the prisoner appeared to have no knowledge of German. So slight was the American's reaction, Klink thought he might have imagined it. But paying closer attention, he realized not only was he correct in believing the American was reading the German documents on his desk—upsidedown, no less—but he understood every word being said around him.

What Klink knew from years of dealing with foreign prisoners, that apparently the Gestapo—used to dealing only with terrified German civilians—didn't, was the look of someone hearing a conversation in a language they didn't understand, or only partially understood. Maybe, just maybe, Klink _would_ be able to extract information from the American where so many professionals had failed.

Starting to feel a bit smug about his discovery, Klink came in awkwardly late with his echoing "Heil Hitler," which earned him an unnerving scowl from the major.

Before stomping out, the Gestapo major paused by the American colonel, glaring at him threateningly. The American raised his head, and Klink saw him fix the major with a look of pure, venomous hatred. The American colonel and the Gestapo major held their looks for a long moment before the major snorted and stomped out.

The outer door slammed so hard the office shook. Automobile doors slammed. They were gone. Preparing to launch into his 'tough but fair' speech, Klink turned toward the American. Colonel Hogan closed his eyes and let out a short sigh.

Was that real? Klink wondered, aborting the speech before he started. Or a master manipulator already playing his new keeper? It didn't exactly reveal a great deal about a man, other than basic sanity, to know he feared and dreaded the Gestapo. And this man looked exhausted. Maybe he'd drained his last reserves of will holding out against the Gestapo. Now might be a perfect time to question him…

Klink took a deep breath. No. Not just now.

Schultz fumbled with the handcuff key handed to him by the Gestapo guards. Stepping around his desk, Klink snatched it from his pudgy fingers. As he took hold of the chain between the American's wrists, Klink looked at him again. Would his eyes be filled with the same abject hatred toward Klink that he'd directed toward the Gestapo major? No. Colonel Hogan only looked at him with a controlled apprehension. No doubt he had good cause to worry about his new situation. Yet, still, defiance shone in those sharp eyes.

Unlocking the cuffs, Klink tossed them distastefully onto his desk. It didn't used to be this way. In the Great War captured enemy aviators were treated with the respect and courtesy due officers and gentlemen—members of the same elite fraternity, though they fought on different sides. They were guests, almost, not… criminals. Who had changed? His people? Or the enemy? Or the world? For all he knew, this American flier was nothing more than a plumber's assistant suddenly transformed into a bomber pilot, not a proper aviator at all. Yet, he was a colonel already, with America only months into the war? And quite young, too. No, probably a career army pilot. A genuine flier. A colleague…

Crossing back around to stand behind his desk, Klink straightened and said, "You are…"

"Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

Klink blinked. "Yes. I know that. What I was saying is that you are again in the custody of the Luftwaffe." He added seriously, "We are not the Gestapo."

Did this Colonel Hogan almost laugh at him? What a strange reaction.

"Sit down, Colonel," Klink said, turning away. Regaining his sense of composure, Klink reached to pour himself a sherry, thought a moment, then poured two. Heaven knows the American could use a drink. Rounding his desk, Klink perched on the corner, facing the now-seated Hogan. He held out the small glass.

"This is Luft Stalag 13," Klink said, watching Hogan. The American stared suspiciously at the glass being presented to him, then took it hesitantly. Klink noticed he examined it as one might examine a land mine in his path. _Two months with the Gestapo._ Klink hid a shiver. Then Hogan downed the sherry in a gulp and handed the glass back. There was a certain sort of fatalistic, condemned-man-having-his-last-meal air to it, Klink decided. He set the empty glass on the edge of the desk, without comment, sipping his own slowly.

"I am the Kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink," he continued, studying the American officer more closely. "Sergeant Schultz," he nodded toward him, "is sergeant of the guard. You are the ranking officer among the prisoners—" The only officer "—therefore you will serve as Senior POW officer and liaison between the German staff and the prisoners. Do you understand?"

Hogan stared at him, eyes narrowing with a wary glitter, but still showing distinct apprehension. And now Klink found himself being the subject of measurement and appraisal. "Luft Stalag…" the American echoed. "Liaison…?"

Klink sincerely doubted the Gestapo had informed him of their destination. Probably he had been led to believe he was being taken out to be shot. Or worse. Did he know this was a Luftwaffe POW camp and not a concentration camp? Almost gently, Klink said, "They didn't tell you where you were being taken. Did they?"

"No, sir," Hogan said. The defiance slipped a bit, Klink saw. The American took a shuddering breath. "I thought…"

Waving his hand to stop him, Klink said very softly, in German, "It's over." Hogan let out the smallest of relieved sighs, incidentally confirming Klink's assessment of his knowledge of the language. Shifting back to English, Klink said at normal volume, "It is camp policy to isolate new prisoners for… a brief time." Suddenly he didn't want to commit himself to an exact number of days. "Sergeant Schultz will escort you. We will talk again later." He stood, waving Schultz over.

Taking the American colonel by the arm in an almost fatherly way, Klink watched Schultz lead him into the outer office. "Schultz," Klink called.

"You wait here," Schultz told Hogan, almost as though speaking to a child. He hurried back to Klink's desk.

Low, Klink said, "Not an isolation cell, Schultz. One of the barred cells."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz answered, appearing distinctly grateful.

"And, Schultz…" Klink hesitated. "See to it he has adequate bedding. And a decent meal. Get something from the guards' mess. And stay on duty in the cooler," he said, staring at the figure waiting in the outer office. Waiting? Wait. Was Fräulein Helga giggling? Was the frightened, cowed prisoner smiling?

Schultz beamed, then tried to quell it. "Thank you, Herr Kommandant."

Klink continued to stare thoughtfully at the spot Hogan stood, even after he was led away. Stalag 13 was about to change. The question was 'how'.

* * *

"Did the American arrive, Klink?" General Burkhalter demanded as soon as he stepped out of his staff car, barely acknowledging Klink's salute.

"Yes, Herr General. He's in the cooler now," Klink told the back of the General's head as he scurried behind him on the way into his office. "I've taken every precaution to…"

"Shut-up, Klink," Burkhalter snapped as Klink closed the office door behind him. Klink shifted rapidly from foot to foot as the General settled in at Klink's desk. "How did he seem?"

"Seem, sir?" Klink asked.

"Yes, 'seem', you imbecile," Burkhalter shouted in that endearing way of his. "What sort of condition was the American in? Insolent? Defiant? How did he seem?"

"Alive," Klink said, low and flat.

That took some of the bluster out of the General, Klink decided. Burkhalter settled back in Klink's chair and harrumphed thoughtfully. "Yes," Burkhalter said after a moment, "I suppose that's something. And now it's your job to keep him that way. To keep him here, contained, and out of trouble."

Klink sighed extravagantly. Russian icicles forming on his ailerons…

"Herr General…" Klink began cautiously, "I don't know how I can be expected to keep this American here at Stalag 13 when he's already escaped four times from a far more secure facility than this. Unless I keep him locked in the cooler permanently, and begging the General's pardon, I think that would cause unrest among the other prisoners." _And be unforgivably cruel, _Klink thought. He added sorrowfully, "Sir, my guards aren't the most…"

Burkhalter cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "But you have an advantage, Klink."

"I do, sir? What?"

With a wicked smile, General Burkhalter leaned forward and peered at Klink. "Don't you see, Klink? This Colonel Hogan was just handed command of nearly a thousand men. As Senior POW officer in this camp, he's responsible for all the other Allied prisoners here. He won't escape. He can't."

"It's the duty of every officer to escape," Klink recited hollowly. "I don't see how…"

"An officer's duty is also to the men under his command," Burkhalter snapped. "Hogan is effectively under _my_ command and now _I've_ assigned _him_ a new command."

"I didn't think Germans could make American command assignments," Klink said faintly, trying to decipher the General's reasoning.

"It's wonderfully ironic, isn't it?" Burkhalter said chuckling. "In this case, I can."

"But surely, Herr General," Klink said, trying not to stammer, "if he's such an important prisoner, someplace more secure, like Colditz…"

"Even Colditz has escapes. Hmph. Successful escapes, unlike you, strange as that is to say. And there's nothing at Colditz to keep Hogan from trying. And trying. And trying, until he either succeeds—which is unacceptable—or the Gestapo shoots him and," the General's voice rose to a near-shriek, "I don't want them to have the satisfaction." He settled back, some of the red draining from his face. "Here, there is something to keep him from trying to escape. Willing or not, Colonel Hogan now has a new command. He can't abandon his responsibility to that command, to these prisoners. That's why I assigned him here, Klink, to an enlisted men's camp. There are no other officers Hogan can turn over his duties to. He's solely and exclusively responsible. He's stuck." Burkhalter smiled smugly. "Your fence could be made of cobwebs, Klink. Hogan won't leave."

* * *

Shameless fraternization. Shameless fraternization, and coddling. There were no other words to describe it, Klink thought as he entered the cooler building and heard Schultz's voice. Of course, he would overlook it. But. Just. This. Once. _Ahem_… just this once, _again_.

The outer door of the cooler stood open, a flagrant breach of security yet one Klink understood—Schultz was letting the air in. It could indeed be stuffy down in the cells. Still, the cooler was meant to be punishment. Yet he wasn't trying to punish the American colonel… Klink rubbed his temple. Not even a day and already this new prisoner had him confounded. Burkhalter sent him here because of Klink's record of no successful escapes, yet at the same time suggested that didn't matter at all. Klink was supposed to get information from the prisoner, yet in three months the best (and worst) interrogators in the country had gotten nothing from him.

Quietly descending the stairs, Klink kept back toward the wall so Schultz and the prisoner wouldn't see him, yet he could hear what was being said.

Shameless fraternization. The conversation was wholly one-sided. Schultz rambled on about his family, the weather, food… Then Klink heard an answering chuckle to one of Schultz's comments, and Klink realized Schultz had again earned his role as sergeant of the guard. He may be an inept soldier (distinctly), and as a prison guard, less than fierce (definitely!), but he created a rapport with the young men—some scarcely more than boys—in his charge. Schultz kept the prisoners controlled and contained simply because they didn't want to disappoint him or get him into trouble. That trait made it possible for Klink to overlook the fraternization, probable bribes, and dozens of other infractions of rules and discipline Schultz engaged in. Still, he couldn't let either Schultz or the prisoners know that.

Backing up, Klink creaked the outer door, then stomped loudly down the stairs, marching up to the cell. The American colonel sat on the bunk, one leg drawn up, in a very unmilitary posture. Schultz scrambled to his feet from the stool he'd drawn up to the bars. Klink snatched up the sergeant's rifle (leaning between the bars, donnerwetter!) and thrust it toward Schultz who saluted repeatedly.

"The colonel's personal property is in a box in the outer office," Klink said. Burkhalter's driver had brought it in. "Go get it," he ordered.

As Schultz scurried off, Klink turned toward the new prisoner. "Colonel Hogan," he said by way of greeting.

"Kommandant," the American responded. One word. One simple word and yet he managed to fill it with—what was it General Burkhalter had said?—insolence. Worse, he remained seated, studying Klink with overt curiosity.

"It's customary, Colonel," Klink grated, "to offer salutes to enemy officers. It's also required by the Geneva Convention."

Hogan didn't even seem to attempt to repress the smirk he aimed at Klink. "Don't think that applies if there's bars between us," he said, belatedly adding, "_sir_."

It was easy to hide his amusement behind a glower of irritation. The irritation was real enough, but the sense of amusement surprised Klink. This was the first American officer he'd met and Klink had to admit he lived up to the typecast—_cowboy_. Cocky, self-assured, and with that brazen lack of adherence to proper manners and decorum. Interesting. Interesting…

_Mein Gott_, Klink thought, _how am I going to keep this man contained and controlled? _"Yes," Klink said, staring dismally at Hogan. "Well, I have enough paperwork to contend with without reporting every minor infraction of the rules to my superiors—" _There, I've let him know I'll be slack in some areas; can't really expect an American to know proper military behavior, anyhow. They're a chaotic people. That's why we'll win._ "—yet in important matters I rule with an iron fist and will tolerate no lapses in discipline." He made his 'iron fist' gesture. Hogan appeared irritatingly amused.

"I trust Sergeant Schultz has informed you of the basic rules of the camp, Colonel," Klink continued, though he doubted it. Best repeat them. "Stay away from the fence. Don't cross the warning wire. Obey the guards' orders. Don't cause any trouble, and you may be able to sit out this war in relative comfort and security." Both of us. _Please_.

"Of course, Kommandant," Hogan answered in what Klink noted was an acknowledging but not-agreeing way. Oh… he was going to be trouble. Trouble every moment. Klink glanced around the cell and for an instant reconsidered keeping him locked up in here permanently. Considering where Hogan had been, this probably was relatively comfortable.

Straightening a bit, Klink flicked his riding crop against his boot. "Do not attempt to escape," he said firmly. "You've seen for yourself the perils of falling into the Gestapo's hands after this fourth failed attempt of yours…"

"Fourth?" Hogan cut Klink off mid-sentence.

"Yes. Fourth," Klink repeated, confused. "Your record shows four attempts to escape, with the fourth ending with your arrest in Düsseldorf by the Gestapo…"

"Are you telling me the truth, Kommandant? Is that what your records show?" Hogan demanded.

The prisoner had cut him off again. And now was interrogating him! The audacity. How had the Gestapo resisted the urge to shoot him?

"I have no reason to lie…" Klink began.

"So that's how they're covering it," Hogan said, seemingly more to himself than to Klink. "Bastards."

Klink flinched. Cursing a German was another charge Klink could have the prisoner brought up on. Best not to notice that indiscretion. It, no doubt, was well motivated.

"What are you talking about, Colonel Hogan? Is that not what happened?" Klink demanded.

Giving Klink a dark smile, Hogan said, "No, sir. I did not escape a fourth time. Three times. Caught right away each time by the Luftwaffe guards."

"Then how is it you were arrested by the Gestapo in…?" Klink started slowly, a chill starting to seep into him as his realization grew.

"The Gestapo didn't arrest me while trying to escape," Hogan said coldly. "I was handed over to them. For their own special brand of interrogation. Handed over to them by your Luftwaffe, Klink."

Klink barely noticed the impertinent use of his name, or the personal slur on his branch of service. He stared at the prisoner, his mouth hanging open. Dropping down to sit on Schultz's stool, Klink silently mouthed the American's curse word. In a whisper he said, "That's… not right."

"You're telling me," Hogan muttered in agreement. Louder, he said to Klink, "So, if I protest to the Protecting Power, the cover story is all in place. Probably the witnesses all properly intimidated, too. That's really what your papers say, Kommandant? Arrested by the Gestapo while escaping?"

Klink nodded. "Yes. It is. I'll let you see them, if you want. That wasn't, I think, among those papers you were reading off my desk." He gave the American a brief, triumphant glance.

"Oh, hey…" Hogan began to protest. Klink enjoyed having managed to fluster the prisoner, at least a small amount. "I couldn't read anything there, sir. I was just looking…"

"Of course," Klink cut in, pleased to be the one back in control of the conversation. "So you heard what the Gestapo major told me about your security arrangements here. I have no intention of taking his suggestions. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13 and I trust there shall never be one." He flicked his riding crop sharply against his boot, staring sternly at the prisoner. _Please_.

Hogan grinned. Klink resisted the impulse to whimper as he held his stern expression. He fervently hoped Burkhalter was right about the American officer staying here out of duty.

"It's every officer's duty to attempt to escape, Kommandant." Hogan sounded almost apologetic. Had he seen the pleading look in Klink's eyes?

"I understand that, Colonel," Klink said. He had to reinforce the warning he'd given Hogan; had to make certain he understood the risks of being outside this protective ring of wire… uh, _steel_. "However, you must understand something, as well. Did you happen to notice the red marking tab on the folder about you on my desk?" Hogan shook his head slightly. "That means you have been 'red-tabbed', or 'red-flagged' might be the better word, by the High Command. You've been marked as 'Deutschfeindlich'. Do you understand that word?"

Hogan grinned broadly. Apparently he did understand, and enjoyed the definition far too much for Klink's comfort. "I should think, Kommandant, that all enemy soldiers would be considered 'hostile to Germany'."

Again, Klink had to hide his unexpected flare of amusement behind a stern scowl. "Yes," he said, waiting until he had it controlled. "However, in this case it means you have been flagged as a unique enemy of the Third Reich." He paused, staring the American in the eyes. "They have you marked, Colonel. Remember that."

The grim stare broke when both men heard the outer cooler door open and the huffing of Sergeant Schultz climbing down the stairs reached them. Klink hid his fond smile. Hogan didn't.

Rifle butt dragging on the floor, as he carried the box in, Sergeant Schultz came to a puffing halt. He leaned his gun against the cell door and shifted his grip on the box to have a free hand to salute. Klink snatched the rifle from between the bars before tersely returning the salute. He didn't missed Hogan's chuckle.

"Give the prisoner his property," Klink ordered.

Item by item, Schultz handed them in through the bars. Wallet… Klink noticed Hogan latch onto his watch with some intensity. No sense of time locked in a Gestapo cell?

"Wait a moment." Klink stopped Schultz handing the next item in. "Keys?" he asked of Hogan.

Hogan glanced up from winding his watch. "Yeah. For my motorcycle back home."

"Prisoners are not allowed keys of any kind," Klink said, dropping them back in the box. Hogan stared at him questioningly. "This is a prison. The guards carry keys, not the prisoners." These innocent keys could easily be refashioned by the clever prisoners to open the locks here.

Hogan just shrugged. "Doesn't start anyhow," he muttered. He looked up. "What time is it?"

Schultz dug for his pocket watch. "Two thirty-seven," he answered after squinting at it far too long. Klink added bad vision to the traits he didn't think were high on the list of qualities to have in a prison guard.

"And the date?" Hogan asked, still twisting knobs on his wristwatch, setting the calendar.

"The second," Klink answered.

"Of?"

He didn't know the month? An odd and troubling thought occurred to Klink. "Colonel Hogan, do you know how long you were held by the Gestapo?"

Hogan just shrugged without looking up, but Klink saw a hint of tension rise in him. "Three, four months, I guess."

Klink blinked. "It was two months," he said. "It's the second of September."

Looking up to meet his eyes, Klink suddenly saw another, brief, unguarded moment from the prisoner. What Klink had said clearly unsettled him.

Then the control slipped back in place and Hogan refocused on his watch. He commented lightly, "Well, they say time flies when you're having fun." Klink saw him swallow hard before he added, "I guess the reverse is true, too."

* * *

Striding across the compound toward his quarters, Klink decided he'd release Hogan from the cooler in the morning, after roll call. Let the man have one good night of rest before he had to deal with the thousand-odd rowdy characters for whom he was now responsible.

Two months of lost time… two months that seemed like four…

The thought went around and around in Klink's head as he marched into his quarters, slamming the door shut behind him. It wasn't right. The Luftwaffe was supposed to protect the prisoners in its charge, not hand them over to the Gestapo when their own questioning failed. No wonder Hogan looked so suspiciously at Klink. He had no reason to trust Klink, or anyone else.

Settling into a comfortable chair, Klink pulled out the large folder again and sorted through it. Dossiers… There'd been intelligence investigations done on the colonel. Agents in England had tried to uncover information about him with limited success. Klink scanned their summaries. 504th Bomb Group. B-17s. U.S. Army Air Corps. Very successful bombing runs personally noticed by the High Command. Some handwritten notation by a General Biedenbender that Klink couldn't make out.

Place of birth… somewhere in America. Hmph. As he understood it, that was a big place. Possibly somewhere in Connecticut or Wisconsin. Those were states in America, Klink decided. Then he pulled out the summary of the Luftwaffe evaluation center interrogations that he'd glanced over earlier. Born possibly in Ohio or Indiana. Hogan had said, or alluded to, either, or both, or neither. Why the contradiction? Why the confusion? Place of birth—such a simple question, meaningless, almost, why the uncertainty? Indiana… Indians? Oh! Indians! Klink suddenly remembered the American cinema he'd been fond of. Cowboys and Indians. Maybe this Hogan really was a cowboy from the Wild West. Indiana, hmm… He'd have to find a map to see where these alien places were.

Information on Hogan in England was slightly more clear. He'd apparently flown for some time with the RAF before the U. S. entry into the war. Fighters in the Battle of Britain. Whew… one of the fighters protecting Coventry that horrible and deadly (glorious and victorious) night. It said something to Klink: Hogan wasn't just serving his country. He wasn't just fighting as assigned, where assigned. He was actively dedicated to fighting Germany, whether his own nation was in the fight or not. Now, what did that mean?

This Hogan wasn't going to sit back quietly in a prisoner of war camp and wait. If Burkhalter was right and Hogan would see it as his duty to remain here, not escaping, then the other portion of officer's code would take priority—to harass the enemy and cause as much damage and disruption as possible. What were Klink and Germany in for with Colonel Hogan entrenched behind their lines?

So much to lose. So much at risk. So many silences that could not be broken. What does it do to a man to witness horrible things and not be able to do prevent them? Or to have done what you could and still have it be too little? Wilhelm Klink knew something of that feeling. You do what you can do. If Klink crashed and burned—if Hogan shot him down, intentionally or in the crossfire—the wreckage would fall more places than just Stalag 13. Enemies. Allies. Prisoner. Jailer. So very, very much to lose if the silence was broken.

Klink tucked the papers back away, closing the folder. He'd have wine with dinner tonight he decided. A good bottle for the last quiet evening he may know for quite some time to come. Yes, a nice bottle of wine, then he'd take out his violin and play. He'd play and think about the days when there was trust and friendship and all those other things gone away. Yes, he'd play his violin and hear, again, the sweet music of its maker.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Advisory: Some mild English and fairly strong German curse words are used.

**Chapter 3**

Barracks Two… directly across from the Kommandant's office. Hogan mentally measured the distance, triangulating the views from the windows and the doors between barracks and office, as Sergeant Schultz led him from the cooler. Front gate, guard towers, sentries… Distance to the woods…

Hogan strategically failed to notice Klink's blatant lack of covertness as the Kommandant peeked at him from his office window. But for the very delicious Fräulein Helga, leaning out of the office door, he had a grin and a wink in answer to her shy wave. Old Klink must have some kind of smarts, or impressive connections, to manage to have a gorgeous civilian woman as his secretary instead of the usual pimply-faced corporal. Hogan wondered what else the Kommandant had going on.

All the while, Schultz rambled on. 'Good boys' came up quite often coupled with sorrowful clucking about how 'naughty' the 'good boys' could be and the hope that Colonel Hogan could bring them into line. Hogan didn't hide a smile. Schultz was a treasure. A genuinely kind-hearted man clearly sympathetic to his charges. Had be been bribed, bought, or turned yet? How 'good' were the 'naughty' boys here?

The barracks… _How_ had there never been a successful escape from Stalag 13?! The buildings were flat to the ground—no crawl space—with a foundation beneath it. Why, it was a tunnel setup just waiting to happen.

A scruffy group of soldiers dragged themselves haphazardly to their feet a carefully calculated time after Schultz called, "Achtung!", making it clear it was Hogan's rank insignia, and not Schultz's order, that got them up. Promising. Promising, indeed.

They were a mixed lot, all nationalities stirred in together, not the first odd thing about Stalag 13. Hogan caught only a blurred glimpse before a British corporal with a decidedly East End accent ushered Hogan to his private quarters—a tiny plywood box with a desk and two bunks. Behind him, Hogan heard an argument erupt in a mishmash of English and French over what to fix the new 'cor-oh-nel' to eat. The French voice, from a smallish corporal, demanded he fix something—Hogan didn't catch all the words, but 'cuisine' came through. Then the American voice shifted into French with surprising fluency insisting that the 'ker-nel' was an American and _would_ like fried Spam. Hogan couldn't follow the French fast enough to understand everything, but the French word for "barbarians" was remarkable similar to the English word.

"The Frenchies eat garden slugs and you Yanks eat that… _stuff_," the English corporal pointedly censored himself, "and yet you lot complain about English food."

"Boiled beef," Hogan responded as he examined the room. "Blood pudding."

The corporal laughed. "Just like me mum used to make," he said, delivering a salute that was more-or-less correct with only a hint of mockery in it. "Corporal Peter Newkirk, sir. RAF. At your service. Stationed in England a while, sir, were you?"

Hogan returned the salute casually. So the newest round of interrogations began. This batch he didn't mind—good to know they checked references. "Yes, Corporal, a while." Hogan explored the small room slowly. Livable. Comfortable and cozy, assuming, that is, that one wasn't too closely acquainted with the concept of, say, _civilization_. It wasn't the Biltmore, that was for sure.

"Sooo…" Newkirk drew the word out, "came over to England this year, or straightaway in December '41, was it?"

A decided lack of subtlety. "In '40, actually," Hogan said. "Hurricanes in the Battle of Britain. Eagle squadron after." He read the reaction on Newkirk's face and knew he'd won his first unconditional ally among the men at Stalag 13.

"You was in the RAF, sir?" Newkirk's voice sounded both incredulous and admiring. "A Yank defending me mum and me dad from the bombing…" Then the Cockney irreverence came back full force with, "A Yank from the colonies taking orders from the crown. Would've fancied seeing that."

Hogan chuckled. "And now you'll be taking orders from me," he said, testing the waters.

Newkirk grinned. "With pleasure, sir." He snapped off a perfect salute, though it still came off as somewhat mocking. "Come on out and meet the rest of the gang when you're settled in, Colonel," he said.

After the door closed behind Newkirk, Hogan sank down on the bottom bunk, rubbing his hands over his face, switching off his public bravado and cheerful façade like a light. He was worn out. Not even noon and he felt like he'd wrestled a grizzly bear and lost. Two months in the tender keeping of the Gestapo. _Only_ two months…

Well, now to do what he could to make their lives miserable. The fight wasn't nearly over. Scheiße, it was scarcely begun. Pulling himself upright, Hogan rearranged his expression, then went out to meet his new command.

* * *

"This is really good," Hogan said, shoving another forkful into his mouth. Somehow the French corporal—LeBeau—had managed to create something exotically tasty out of canned Spam, powdered eggs, and powdered milk—Klim, they called it. "Way better than the Kraut food they gave me last night." Truth be told, Hogan liked German food, but as with many things in these times, and in Allied company, it was a thing best not admitted openly. Most especially to a Frenchman. A French chef, no less. Complimenting German cooking was probably a death penalty offense in France just now. Maybe always, Hogan considered.

"So, what's the escape situation here?" Hogan asked, focusing on his food but watching the men discretely. They shuffled about, rightly embarrassed. As well they should. No successful escapes? From guards like Schultz? Schultz had practically handed Hogan his rifle. Twice. No one particularly answered though there was a lot of vague mumbling.

Hogan looked up. "Do you have an escape committee?" he asked.

"Not really," an American—Olsen—said, sounding a bit reluctant. "There's no one been really in charge, and… well, sir, escaping has been more a personal hobby than a serious team sport."

"What do you mean 'no one in charge'?" Hogan asked.

Olsen shrugged. "You're the only officer here, sir. As enlisted men we don't have a duty to escape like you do. It's… personal, whether we just want to get back home, or get back in the fight."

Hogan resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. "Well, that changes today. An escape committee meeting tonight. We'll start with you three—" He pointed to Newkirk, LeBeau, and Olsen. "—and take it from there. There's gonna be lots of things in this war we do that aren't our specific duty, but we're gonna do them anyhow, because they need to be done to win this thing."

It was a short speech, and Hogan didn't think particularly inspired, but it caused a stirring of agreement amongst the men in Barracks Two. Good men. All they needed was a leader. He'd start them off with the idea of organized escapes and see how they shaped up before hitting them with the bigger plan.

"Getting out of the camp is only the first step," Hogan said, scanning across the dozen or so men in the barracks. One who hung far to the rear, in a shadowy corner, kept catching his attention but the man slipped further back any time Hogan looked at him. Now there was a curiosity. An American Negro sergeant. Huh? How? "Getting out of Germany takes money, papers, civilian clothes, maps, and knowing the language."

LeBeau poured Hogan a cup of coffee. Real coffee. Hogan inhaled the scent deeply. Hogan savored it like a lover's kiss. He moaned. A couple discrete coughs, and not-so-discrete snorts told Hogan his reaction was not particularly well concealed. He smiled over the brim of the cup. "It's been a while," he commented. More briskly, he asked, "Who here speaks German?"

Newkirk piped up with gruff German accent, "Yah vole, Herr Colonel. Show me your papers, at once, you suh-wine!"

Hogan winced. "You do realize, Newkirk, that speaking English with a German accent will not convince the Germans you're speaking German?"

Snapping his fingers, Newkirk said in wonderment, "So _that's_ why that never works!" The men chuckled.

Hogan sighed heavily. "So does anyone here really speak German?"

The stirring was oddly uncomfortable. Hogan wasn't sure why until a hesitant voice from the shadows spoke up. "Uh… that would be me, sir. Sergeant Kinchloe." It was the same voice he'd heard speaking fluent French earlier.

It was the black sergeant. Hogan stared at him a long moment. Absolutely deadpan, Hogan said, "You wouldn't have been my first guess."

"No, sir, Colonel," Sergeant Kinchloe agreed. "The Krauts' either."

"How's your accent?" Hogan asked.

"Good, sir, but somehow the Germans still never quite take me as a native," Kinchloe answered in his own deadpan. Hogan held the sergeant's eyes, then let his own twinkle with amusement. The sergeant's grim expression slipped into a grin. The snorts of laughter this time were not concealed. Hogan chuckled too.

"We'll get you started teaching the others. At least enough to pass checkpoints," Hogan said. "Now, what other specialties do we have…?"

* * *

As sunsets went, it was probably pretty ordinary. Hogan didn't care. It was the first he'd seen in months and in that regard it was extraordinary. Arms folded across his chest, he watched the sun slip down behind the trees. It was remarkably quiet, the air fresh and crisp with the first hint of autumn in it. Peaceful. The voices of the thousand-odd men in the camp faded into a murmur somewhere in the background. It was almost possible to forget…

Hogan felt a presence step up beside him. He didn't need to turn to see who it was, already recognizing the ambling tread of Sergeant Kinchloe.

"What is it, Kinchloe?" he asked, not turning around.

"Call me 'Kinch,' sir," the sergeant said, hesitantly adding, "The, uh, men and I, sir, would feel a bit more comfortable if, uh, you'd stop staring at the fence that way. Sir. The guards, too."

Breaking his attention from the view, Hogan glanced around. He was a good two feet back from the warning wire, but, yes, the tower guards still watched him with a frightening level of interest, machine gun barrels tracking him. A cluster of the men from Barracks Two also watched him.

"It's, uh, called going 'wire happy', sir," Kinch said softly. "It's a look some of them get right before they make a suicide run at the fence. Not that it's happened here," he qualified. "I mean, one tried but the guards missed."

Hogan turned to him with a bemused grin. "I wasn't even seeing the fence. I was watching the sunset." He turned back toward the rosy sky above the treeline. "May sound odd to say, but standing here out in the open feels really… free."

Kinch nodded, then Hogan saw him make a small signal to the watching men, who relaxed and promptly dispersed. Apparently the tower guards saw, and correctly read, the signal too, for they turned their attentions—and gun barrels—off in other directions. _Interesting_.

"Pretty rough, with the Gestapo, sir?" Kinch asked.

Dismissively, Hogan said, "It wasn't the best time I've ever had."

"Sir," Kinch began, then paused. "I may be overstepping my bounds here, but if you'd like to talk about it…"

"I'm fine, Sergeant." Hogan cut him off. Then more gently added, "I do appreciate it, Kinch. Thank you."

"If you change your mind…" Kinch let the thought hang in the air. Hogan nodded.

After watching the sunset a moment more, Hogan turned abruptly to Kinch. "What are you doing here, Sergeant Kinchloe?"

Kinch shrugged. "Shot down and captured. Like the others. Klink didn't know what to do with me so he threw me in with the Frenchman and the Englishman."

"LeBeau and Newkirk?"

"Uh huh. They were so busy fighting with each other they didn't have time to fight with me and somehow at the end of it all we came out as friends," Kinch said.

Hogan stared at him. "Good to know. But I mean, what were you doing in a plane over Germany?"

Scraping a foot in the dirt, Kinch asked, "Do I have to answer that, sir?"

"Yes," Hogan ordered.

He scraped his foot around in the dirt, looking down, before saying, "Well, it's like this, Colonel… I was ground crew for the B-17s. Hmph. Support to the ground crews, is more like it. But, uh, this one captain… he was a decent fellow—" Hogan didn't miss Kinch's emphasis "—and he realized I knew more than just what it takes to scrub toilets—radio communications and such—so he taught me more, and so one day when his radio op was out sick, and he'd have had to scrub going out on a mission, he just kinda quietly had me fill out his flight crew."

"So, on your first mission you were shot down?" Hogan asked.

"Uh, no, sir. Fifth." At Hogan's raised eyebrow query, Kinch went on, "You see, then another crew had me fill in as navigator a couple times, then radio op again for the captain…" Kinch shrugged. "All strictly off the record, of course."

"Huh." Hogan stared at Kinch. "So these B-17 captains broke orders and violated army policy putting you on their crews just so they wouldn't have to miss flying their missions. Violating orders that could get them—and you—court-martialed. Just so they could fly missions that could get them shot down and killed. Is that correct, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," Kinch said.

Hogan held his eye a long moment. It was a decisive moment, Hogan knew, between the colonel and the sergeant. Nodding slowly, Hogan said, "Yeah. I'd have done the same thing." He gave the barest twitch of a smile and the tension between the two men broke. Kinch grinned, relieved.

That was two men with him, Hogan thought. And this man was special. Hogan knew it; could tell it. He was sharp, and knowledgeable, and skilled in critical areas. Had the world been a different place, Kinch would likely have been an officer standing right along side Hogan. He needed a second-in-command. He needed someone he could trust. He needed to trust someone.

"Are you willing to keep taking those kind of risks, Kinch?" Hogan asked abruptly. "No recognition. No glory. Just doing the job, fighting the war, because it needs to be done?"

Kinch straightened. "Yes, sir," he said and Hogan knew he had the man's absolute commitment despite the questions lurking in his eyes.

Hogan's eyes flicked around, making certain no one was within ear-shot. "There's an idea, a plan, I proposed to the British some time ago. It was about having a clandestine unit operating from a base behind enemy lines. Sabotage. Escape and rescue. Espionage." He stared hard at Kinch. "This camp might make just such a base."

Nodding, Kinch met his eyes without a twitch. "And may I ask, sir, did they tell you you were crazy?"

With a laugh, Hogan said, "As a matter of fact, they did. More than once, and quite emphatically. But if what I've seen of Stalag 13 so far is any indication, I think it just might work. These huts are custom-made to put tunnels under. The guard towers are spaced wrong—there are blind spots all over the place. The guards patrolling outside the fence aren't correctly positioned to cover everything. And if Schultz is any example of the guards… I could have had his rifle easily enough yesterday."

"It wouldn't have done you any good, sir. No bullets," Kinch told him apologetically.

"No bullets?"

"Yes, sir. We were going to swipe the ammo out of his gun one time. Turns out it wasn't loaded," Kinch said.

Hogan rolled his eyes and gave a small laugh. "Well, if the Kommandant can be bribed, bullied, or buffaloed, we just might pull it off."

"You'd have to be the one to assess that, sir," Kinch said. Hogan could see him considering it; could see the wheels turning in his head.

"What do you make of Klink?" Hogan asked.

"None of us can get close enough to the Kommandant to be sure," Kinch said. "He makes the Nazi noises when others—like that Gestapo bunch—are around, but he's not a Nazi. Not a party member. I think he's just scared of them like the rest. I think the colonel is old world military. The old glory days…"

"Which these aren't." Hogan sighed. "Well, I'll feel him out. He seemed pretty sharp to me at first—hope I'm wrong about that. But he did figure out I understood German, which threw me for a second."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out, too, sir," Kinch said slowly. "I, uh, was watching through the window when they brought you in. And listening in." Hogan raised his eyebrows at that but wasn't entirely displeased. Bold and resourceful, just what he needed in his men. "I could just kinda tell you knew what they were saying. Then Klink slipped a line of German in on you and you understood it."

"Held that long and then slipped up on something so little." Hogan said, dismayed with himself. "Gestapo couldn't tell," Hogan commented. "And damned glad they couldn't."

Hogan saw Kinch's expression change into one hard and serious. "To do this sabotage and espionage unit you want, Colonel Hogan, at least one person needs to be able to pass as a native German in all situations. That means being completely familiar with the land, the people, the customs and culture, and being fluent in the language. Not just fluent, but having it down so perfectly that no German would ever have a hint of a doubt they were speaking to another German. Close isn't close enough. No misunderstood words, no matter how obscure. No accent that sounds even a tiny bit foreign. It has to be perfect. And it can't be me."

"You're right, Kinch," Hogan said simply.

"Didn't know they taught that sort of thing in Army flight school," Kinch commented.

With a faint smile, Hogan said, "They don't."

"Do you still have family here, Colonel?" Kinch asked bluntly.

All Hogan's defenses snapped up. "I don't know what you mean…"

"Colonel Hogan," Kinch said, clearly speaking man to man rather than sergeant to colonel, "believe me when I say I understand what it is to be judged badly based on who and what your ancestors are. We're at war with Germany. With the Germans. And everyone in the States with a German name, or German accent, or German kin, is getting looked at suspiciously, no matter how American they are."

Arms folded over his chest, Hogan let his defensive reflexes gradually slip down, relaxing his taut stance. He had decided to trust Sergeant Kinchloe, and he would. Hogan let out a long breath. "Some distant cousins." He added grimly, "A few not-so-distant cousins." He looked hard at Kinch. "This cannot go past the two of us, Kinch. Not a hint, not a whisper, to anyone else."

"I understand, sir. Those people would be used against you," Kinch said.

"I know that now better than you can imagine." Hogan turned inward to a place he didn't want to look again.

"The Gestapo?" Kinch nudged gently. "What did they do to you, sir?"

Hogan concentrated on breathing evenly. "It wasn't what they did to me," he said. "It's what they showed me."

"Sir?"

Looking up, Hogan meet Kinch's eyes. "They tortured a German civilian to death in front of me. To get me to talk. He broke. He tried to break. He'd have told them anything and everything to get them to stop. He'd have sold out his wife, his children, everything… to make them stop. And he tried to. But they wouldn't. They wouldn't stop. They didn't care if he broke. They wouldn't stop unless I talked."

"And you didn't."

"I couldn't. I had to just watch." Hogan rubbed his hands over his eyes. "So if they ever found out I had relatives here…"

"I understand, sir. It goes no further," Kinch said. After a long moment, he added, "I'm with you, sir, on this… whatever it is… operation you have in mind. I'm with you all the way. I think Olsen, Newkirk and LeBeau will go along with anything you order, too, Colonel."

Hogan examined the sergeant again, closely. "First thing to learn is caution, Sergeant. How do you know you can trust me? Taking my word that I didn't tell the Germans anything? That I am what I say I am? Hmm? Newkirk asking a couple questions about the RAF isn't sufficient. Shouldn't you at least be asking me some questions about baseball? Or Betty Grable?"

Kinch grinned. "Don't underestimate us, Colonel. We checked your credentials. A few of the men in camp knew you—they vouched for you. Both RAF and US boys. And the Krauts vouched for you too."

"How so?"

"Newkirk broke into Klink's office last night and snatched your file. We made copies, if you'd like to read it," Kinch said with a grin. "You didn't tell the Krauts a thing. Oh, and, here…" Kinch dug into his pocket and handed a set of keys to Hogan.

"How…?" Hogan said.

"Newkirk," Kinch said. "I think he had a bit of an unsavory past, which is working quite well for us. By the way, Newkirk said those aren't motorcycle keys at all—they just look like it. He said they're actually carefully tailored blanks that can be modified quite easily to fit most standard German locks." Kinch's eyes played over Hogan with a sparkle of amusement. "It's late, sir. We need to be inside by dark." He paused. "Perhaps now would be a good time for you to see our lower level expansion project?"

* * *

"Well," Hogan managed to keep his voice even as he stepped off the ladder, "now I know why my crazy plan didn't scare you. You're more nuts than I am."

Kinch chuckled and led him around a corner where the others waited. LeBeau grinned, and Newkirk and Olsen looked justifiably proud. Hogan peered around again in amazement. This wasn't a tunnel. It was a basement.

"Anyone ever tell you guys that prisoner of war escape tunnels are supposed to be about yea-big?" Hogan held his hands up measuring off about coffin-sized dimensions.

"That's how we started out, mon colonel," LeBeau began.

"Too claustrophobic," Olsen added.

"And the Krauts never found it, so we just kept on expanding it," Kinch finished.

Hogan couldn't help gaping in awe as he turned around and around. Klink couldn't find this mammoth excavation? Maybe he wasn't so sharp. "Tell me again how there have never been any successful escapes from here?"

"It's not the getting out of the fence that's the hard part, Colonel," Olsen said. "It's getting across Germany and back to England. We're better than two hundred attempts and no successes. Everyone keeps getting caught. Of course, some of us were just having little weekend getaways..." Hogan scowled. He'd have to question Olsen as to just what that meant. Olsen, seeing the scrutiny he was getting, hastily added, " I understand you're oh-for-four yourself, sir."

"Three," Hogan corrected him. Distractedly, still taking in the mind-boggling proportions of the place, and the interesting quirks of his new team, he spoke his plans out loud, "We need to be able to process escapees methodically. Get everyone in the camp organized making gear—compasses, knapsacks, civilian clothes… Papers. Find out who are the best forgers—look for artists, and accountants, jewelers… people who are used to working with fine details. And we need to make money. Lots and lots of money."

"Make money, sir?" Newkirk echoed. "You mean, get jobs?"

"No. I mean _make_ money. Print it." A slow smile spread across Hogan's face. "One sure way to disrupt a country is to devalue its currency. Print our own German money and we serve two purposes at once."

Scanning his small crew, he said, "I'll need volunteers to go out during bombing raids, round up downed fliers before they're caught. Bring 'em back here, and set them up to make it back to England."

Olsen just nodded, but LeBeau asked incredulously. "You mean we escape? Then come _back_?"

"That's the idea," Hogan said. "That's one thing they don't expect from prisoners, so they won't be looking for it.

"Hit your head when you were shot down, sir? Maybe a concussion? We 'ave a good medic, be happy to drug you senseless 'til the end of the war." Newkirk offered helpfully.

"Or maybe a nice escape, yourself, mon colonel? Back to flying?" LeBeau said. "Bonne chance. Wave at us as you fly over."

Hogan shot a scowl at them, then became lost in his scheme again. "We need to get in contact with the local underground, if there is one. Meeting places. Recognition codes. And a radio." He ran his hand over the hard-packed dirt wall, then looked up. "Do you have a radio?"

"Of course, sir," Kinch said cautiously. "A receiver."

"We need a transmitter. One powerful enough to reach London. Get started on that, Kinch. You'll need a high antenna, some place that won't be noticed—I saw a flagpole that might work…" Hogan strode off down the tunnel, examining each nook and cranny as he did. "And we need to bug Klink's office," he called back to them.

* * *

It was crazy, Hogan decided as he sank back in the bunk. Completely, certifiably crazy. And it just might work. He needed to talk to London and get the ball rolling. Heck, the boys here had half the necessary setup already in place.

Heaving a sigh, Hogan let his tense muscles relax. Exhausted as he was, his brain wouldn't shut down. Details clicked through, ways to make this work. Mama Bear and Papa Bear near Hamburg… Mama would go along with it, Hogan was sure. She'd help fliers and escapees. Papa? Well, if he wouldn't help, he'd probably be willing to look the other way. And those stone-cold Nazi kids of theirs would provide them with a cover. It would be a start. Hmmm… code name 'Goldilocks'. Hogan chuckled to himself. He liked it. It had symmetry. Though… he'd rather be 'Papa Bear' himself.

An espionage operation run from a prisoner of war camp? It wasn't flying, but it could be fun. And cause an awful lot of damage to the Third Reich. Dangerous. But so was everything in this war.

Success or failure hinged on the Kommandant, Colonel Klink. If he could be managed, then everything else stood a chance of success. Could Hogan play him? He'd find out tomorrow.

He had a team and they shaped up to be a good one. An unexpected combination of men, but somehow they meshed. Chance? Hogan wondered for a moment as his sleep-weary mind tugged at him. Or somehow manipulated by someone somewhere? But who could have tinkered with the works to bring this combination of people to this one spot? No. It was chance. Tinker to Evers to Chance, Hogan suddenly remembered. Stifling a laugh as he glanced at the thin walls, still he grinned broadly in the dark as he recalled the famous words, "Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: Tinker to Evers to Chance." Let the trouble begin!

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

_It's impossible to view the episodes of the show as taking place chronologically as they jump about in events that could only take place at specific times through the war (some first season episodes involve situations and events that could only take place in late 1944, after the D-Day invasion, for example), yet I am using a rough chronological order from the early episodes here, referring in this chapter to Episode 2, "Hold That Tiger," Episode 3, "Kommandant Of The Year," Episode 5, "The Flight Of The Valkyrie," Episode10, "Top Hat, White Tie And Bomb Sight", and Episode 7, "A German Bridge is Falling Down". Please try to ignore with me any historical, or show canon, anachronisms this might cause._

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* * *

  
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**Chapter 4**

It was the fastest, most organized roll call since Colonel Klink had taken command of Stalag 13. He strode out of his office as Schultz finished the count of the men of Barracks Two. As ever, Schultz's voice rose in a shrill tone of relief as he reached the final, _correct_, number of men. The lines of prisoners were ragged and sloppy, but were recognizably lines. They stood, or shuffled and swayed, quietly. No catcalls. No insults. Most astonishing, they were only a few minutes late. Some proper discipline and order amongst the prisoners for a change. Having a senior POW officer, thus far, was proving to be a very good thing for Kommandant Klink. A very good thing, indeed. With intelligent cooperation, both sides could benefit from this new arrangement.

Not, Klink allowed, that said senior POW officer appeared to be a prime example of proper military form himself. Colonel Hogan slouched, thumbs hooked in his pockets, surveying Klink with an openly curious expression. He wouldn't last five minutes in the German army, Klink decided. The few American soldiers he'd seen so far in the war were undisciplined, irreverent, and far too individualistic for proper military function. Colonel Hogan struck him as a prime example. _That's why we'll win,_ Klink thought again, this time the realization flooding him with a sense of bleak destiny, rather than victorious pride.

"All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant," Sergeant Schultz announced in a tone carrying a trifle too much relief. A few prisoners stifled laughs. When time between escape attempts was often counted in hours, it was understandable. Maybe Hogan had already ordered an end to the often impulsive, usually hopelessly foolish, escape attempts that plagued Klink and the guards on an almost daily basis. Not a one wanted to have to file a 'shot while trying to escape' report, most especially Klink, and thus far had been lucky not to have had to do so. Either that or his guards missed on purpose. Or they were astonishingly bad shots. Maybe he should order target practice just so they didn't accidentally hit someone they were trying to miss.

Klink returned Schultz's salute and announced, "Disss-missed." He loved the drawn out 's'es of the English word. It might, in fact, be his favorite English word. Maybe because it was the word that had always signaled an end to those dreadful sessions with his English instructor at the Gymnasium. He'd really learned English well from the American cinema, and listening to the BBC. He missed both. Two more things sacrificed to the 'greater good'.

As he turned toward his office, Klink paused. An end to impulsive, unplanned escape attempts might just mean a beginning to organized, coordinated, well-planned escapes. Klink shivered. Turning back toward the prisoners, he called, "Colonel Hogan." The American officer looked toward him quizzically. "Report to my office in an hour," Klink ordered. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he spun and marched back toward his office as rapidly as dignity allowed.

His colleagues thought he'd gotten a safe, cushy assignment as Kommandant of a prison camp. They should try facing nearly a thousand of the enemy at close range every single day. Being reviled by a distant enemy was one thing. Being reviled up close and in person was quite another. Being hated… it was a difficult thing, no matter the circumstances. Every morning and evening nearly one thousand men glared directly at him with hatred and contempt. At him. Klink. Personally. It ate at a man's soul to feel that on a continual basis. Klink closed his office door firmly behind him, hanging his hat on the coat rack by the door, glad the morning's roll call ordeal was over and wondering what had possessed him to subject himself to another ordeal a mere hour from now. He recalled vividly the utter hatred Colonel Hogan had aimed at the Gestapo major, and the contempt in his tone over the Luftwaffe's betrayal of responsibility of him as their prisoner. Thus far, however, he didn't seem to paint all Germans with the same brush, though goodness knows he had cause to do so.

* * *

Hogan appeared promptly on time, his arrival announced by Fräulein Helga in silky tones. Did his secretary seem a bit flushed, Klink wondered briefly, then lost the thought as his new senior POW officer stepped into the office.

Good so far, Klink thought. Hat in hand. A reasonably proper salute. Excellent. Then Hogan dropped his hat on Klink's spiked helmet and sat down without being given permission. Klink thrust the hat back at him. Limits must be set at once. Boundaries. It must be made clear who was in charge here.

Straightening, Klink began his carefully practiced 'tough but fair' speech. He noticed Hogan's attention wandering about mid-way through. Americans. Hmph! Didn't their leader—President Roosevelt—ever give long-winded speeches they had to pay strict attention to? Hmph, again. Maybe not. He remembered hearing about something called 'fireside chats'. Imagine the Führer _chatting_ with his people by a fireside. Donnerwetter!

"Colonel Hogan, pay attention," Klink snapped when the American's attention clearly had gone entirely away from Klink's speech.

"Say, is that you?" Hogan asked eagerly, pointing to one of the photographs decorating the walls of the office.

"Yes, it is," Klink said, realizing a moment too late he'd let the conversation slip out of his control again.

"May I?" Hogan asked, half way there before receiving Klink's consent. "Wonderful picture of you, sir," Hogan said, as he studied the photograph of the biplane.

"Thank you," Klink responded automatically. He did look quite dashing as a young officer posed in the open cockpit with his goggles and white silk aviator's scarf. No one before in his office had so much as glanced at the picture.

"That's a Fokker D VII, isn't it, sir?" Hogan peered closely at the picture.

"Yes. It is," Klink said, surprised. "You're familiar with them?"

"Flew one once," Hogan said, still studying the photograph. "Just for fun. A little stunt flying. Good plane." He turned and gave Klink a look of pure, undeniable admiration. "I must say, Colonel Klink, you're a very brave man."

Klink looked quizzically at him, eyebrow raised.

"Well, sir," Hogan explained, "synchronized machine guns firing through the prop? That would scare the heck out of me. No, sirree… that takes nerves of steel. My hat's off to you, sir." Hogan suddenly saluted him, very correctly, very properly. His newest prisoner radiated respect—flyer to flyer, Klink realized, like the old days. It had been a long time since he'd been with someone who understood, Klink thought, proudly returning the salute.

As Hogan wandered the room, examining the other photographs, Klink felt himself blushing and, unaccountably wanted to make sure the record was set straight between himself and this enemy aviator. "Not so brave," Klink admitted. "Just young and foolish. Had the devilscared out of me a time or two." He suppressed a shiver. "Those machine guns firing through the propeller… not always such a good idea."

Hogan turned toward him with a serious expression. "Took out your own prop once, huh, sir?"

Klink nodded rapidly, feeling his blush grow. How did this American manage to both please and fluster him at the same time? "It wasn't even in combat," Klink said. "A test fire not more than thirty feet off the ground. Dropped right back down and wrecked the airplane. I got in such trouble—I was supposed to have test-fired on the ground."

Though he appeared to quickly hide a grin, it was very seriously Hogan asked, "Did you go back up?"

Sharply, Klink said, "Of course. It was my duty."

"Of course," Hogan echoed. "Like I said, sir, a brave man." Then like a child in a candy shop, Hogan's attention jumped elsewhere. "Ooh, chess," he exclaimed, moving toward the board. "Do you play, sir?"

"Some," Klink answered. When had he lost control of this meeting? Had he ever really had it? And why didn't he mind? It was good, he admitted to himself, to have a colleague to talk with, an equal even if an enemy. His was a lonely job…

Hogan moved a piece and looked expectantly at Klink. Challenge issued, Klink thought. But such impertinence! Not five minutes in the German army… He wouldn't last five minutes. The remaining question was whether he could last as a prisoner in today's Germany.

Moving round his desk to the opposite side of the board, Klink stared down. Hogan's first move was the white knight. Making a statement, Hogan? With a conservative response, Klink pushed out a black pawn. He half-noticed Hogan's lips twitch in a smile. Statement and counter-statement? Or just a friendly game of chess.

Friendly? Unbelievable! Was he thinking of 'friendly' while with an enemy officer? Hogan met the black pawn with a white. Klink stared, sinking down into the chair by the board. Chess could be not merely a game, but a window into the opponent's mind, his patterns, his strategies, his personality…

Klink stared at the three moved pieces. Three moves, yet those three moves said much. Intently studying at the board, Klink ran through every game opening he knew, following their sequence of moves through from this pattern. He scarcely noticed Hogan continued to roam about the office, looking at the photographs on the walls, glancing at paperwork and notices. "Stay out of there," Klink inserted reflexively, not looking up, as Hogan's hand closed around the filing cabinet handle. He barely noticed the American shift his attention to the sherry decanter on top the filing cabinet. Didn't notice when the small cordial was set on the table beside him, so absorbed in the pattern before him. White knight, black pawn, white pawn…

He had it.

The white knight was a decoy, a diversion—irrelevant to the real play Colonel Hogan was setting up. Donnerwetter! Hogan was trying a 'Fool's Mate' on him! One wrong move on Klink's part and Hogan would checkmate him in an embarrassingly short number of moves. It was a beginner's trick. Either this Hogan was a rank amateur as a chess player, or he thought Klink was to fall into such a cheap trap. Hmph. We shall see. We shall see.

Klink cautiously edged a piece out. Hogan answered immediately, causing Klink to fall into a new analysis. He puffed distractedly on the cigar in his hand, not wondering when it had appeared there.

The game stretched on. Klink couldn't remember when he'd last spent such an engrossing and enjoyable hour—or was it two? Surely not three? Had he eaten his lunch without noticing? The plate was empty. Hogan played like no other Klink had ever encountered. At worst, his play could be called erratic, but there was an underlying pattern to it, Klink discovered bit by bit. He didn't play according to the book, that much was certain, but with a very un-German impulsive spontaneity. Yet his abrupt moves coupled with strategies that went many moves further ahead than any other player Klink had met. There were patterns within patterns, setups within setups, but ultimately Klink found his way through the tangle of them all…

"Ah, ha!" Klink announced, pouncing his piece forward in the final move of the game. "Checkmate."

"Brilliant, Colonel," Hogan said with humbled sincerity. "A rematch sometime?"

"Certainly, certainly," Klink said distractedly, still admiring the board.

"With your permission, Kommandant…" Hogan moved toward the door.

"Of course." Klink waved his hand toward the exit. Standing up, he crossed to stand behind his desk. "One more thing, Colonel… Your men this morning were very sloppy in formation. When on parade they should be at attention, their ranks straight, and their uniforms tidy. I trust you'll see to this matter."

With no attempt to conceal his grin, Hogan said, "It's not a 'parade', Kommandant, it's a roll call. For your purposes, not ours. We'll show up. You count us." He paused, staring off into space briefly, then met Klink's eyes with a flash of humor. "_Usually_ we'll show up." He tossed off a cocky salute.

"Disss-misssed," Klink called to the already closed door, his hand dropping from salute to clenched fist. Even as the American annoyed him, he couldn't help but think he hadn't felt this good in quite some time.

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe had become a believer. Colonel Hogan. His (grand, bizarre, insane) plan. The (remote) possibility they might just pull it off. Yes, indeed, Sergeant Kinchloe had become a (tentative, qualified) absolute believer. The first drop from London had done it. One code word transmitted from Hogan along with a set of coordinates and the next night a plane flew over and dropped an amazing collection of supplies. Hogan seemed most fond of the plates for printing German money while Kinch latched onto the radio parts.

So this bizarre plan of the colonel's wasn't some half-baked scheme he'd thrown at the brass during a drunken cocktail party as Kinch first suspected. Well, maybe it was. All right, probably. But Colonel Hogan really had planned out, in detail, and proposed an idea to run a base of operations from inside Germany. It wasn't an 'I'll get shot down on purpose to run this thing' proposal, either. It was more a contingency, 'in case I'm shot down, here's what I'm gonna do' plan. The POW camp as a base was just serendipity—a cover even Hogan hadn't anticipated would work as well as it had. No, his notion had been to evade capture, or escape as soon as possible, connect with the Underground and use the presence in Germany to establish an Allied base right under the German's noses. All quite reasonable, to Hogan's way of thinking.

No wonder London thought he was nuts.

Yet, here they were. As he hid back in the shadows, Kinch watched in on-going amazement as Hogan, in a German major's uniform, talked a Kraut patrol into handing custody of a captured flier over to him. As Hogan escorted the frightened American sergeant toward where Kinch crouched, covering them, he saw the colonel talking rapidly with the young man. Abruptly, they turned around and—to Kinch's astonishment—Hogan turned the sergeant he'd just rescued right back over to the patrol, ordering them to take him straight to Stalag 13.

The 'nuts' theory still had some legs on it, Kinch considered.

"Sir?" Kinch let several dozen questions rest on that single word when Hogan finally rejoined him in the woods.

Hogan grinned. "I think we got us a munitions man," Hogan whispered. "Name's Carter and he agreed to sign on to the mission."

"Didn't get a chance to question his sanity, did you sir?" Kinch whispered back.

With his grin even broader, Hogan only said, "Let's get back to camp."

* * *

Klink stood in the window of his office gazing out at the compound. Prisoners milled about, seemingly aimlessly, but 'aimlessly' had become a troubling concept at Stalag 13 in the last few months since Colonel Hogan arrived. The milling about could be quite 'aimed', he had learned to his dismay. Strange goings-on in the middle of the night—in the middle of the day, for that matter—Tiger tanks appeared and disappeared. Roll call counts were as likely to show too many prisoners as too few. Rockets parked in the camp suddenly bombed German cities. The common factor was always Hogan. Yet when Klink, in a burst of terrified frustration, tried to replace his senior officer with a British RAF colonel, everything exploded from the strange to the impossible. Fences fell down and airplanes used the camp as a runway...

Sometimes Klink didn't sleep well at night.

Yet Berlin had never been happier with Klink and with Stalag 13. No escapes. Never an escape. The attempts had slowed to a trickle, with those still taking place always seeming to overlap the other strange events. Always, always an excuse appeared, an explanation that satisfied Berlin and let Klink's own camp reports remain letter-perfect. Stalag 13 was growing a reputation as the toughest POW camp in all of Germany. Sometimes a slightly hysterical laugh would bubble up in his throat when Klink thought of that. The newsletter circulated among POW camp commanders only discussed simple, trivial security issues, like burying microphones along the fence perimeter to listen for tunneling. Mein Gott… if only his prisoners would do something as mundane as tunneling.

Then there was his secretary, Fräulein Helga… Donnerwetter! Fraternization with the enemy had to have _some_ limits. How many times could Klink be expected to 'not see' what was evidently going on? If he allowed himself to officially 'see' then he would be forced to act, and he wasn't at all sure what the appropriate course of action should be. A stint in the cooler for Hogan and the arrest of Helga, or—as the Americans called it—a 'shot-gun wedding'? He didn't think the POW camp commander's manual covered such a situation. Klink groaned. As much as he'd enjoy throwing Hogan in the cooler, he couldn't bear to see Fräulein Helga face the consequences she would. Did Hogan not realize the risk he put the girl in? Were this… this… _affair_ known, Helga would disappear into a concentration camp overnight! Fond as Klink was of Fräulein Helga, he had to see about getting a replacement, before it was too late.

Klink rubbed his stomach. Maybe he was getting an ulcer.

Were other POW camps like this? Or had Klink been particularly 'blessed'? It was General Burkhalter's fault. He'd sent Hogan here. Klink reread some of Hogan's file last night in his quarters. Klink pondered the words of the Luftwaffe interrogator to Hogan, "…game. The kind of game I know you enjoy. Strategy and tactics. Give and take. Tricks and deception. I think it will be fun for both of us, to a point."

_To a point,_ Klink repeated to himself, watching the men from Barracks Two gather in a casual cluster outside the building, Hogan in their midst. What were they talking about? The weather? Girls? Baseball? Or a mass escape? Maybe Hogan was waiting to make the ultimate grand gesture and one day Klink would wake up to find he had one thousand escaped prisoners roaming Germany all at once.

How far was it to the Swiss border? And could Klink beat his prisoners there to escape himself?

Nonsense, Klink thought, though every day he surreptitiously checked the flag pole above the Kommandantur to make sure the German flag still flew there and not the Stars & Stripes. The correct flag always flew, but sometimes at half-mast. Klink was never sure who had died. No matter. One certainty in Hitler's Germany was the assurance that some high official was always dying for causes unknown. Whoever Schultz had in charge of the flag must keep track of such things.

Now, pressure came from above indicating Hogan remained a subject of intense interest to the Gestapo and the High Command. Why? He'd been at Stalag 13 for months, a prisoner months more. Surely any information he had about Allied bombing and codes and such was outdated to the point of useless. Yet, Klink had to make a report, provide some new information showing he was gradually wearing the prisoner down with his relentless interrogations (there was that hysterical laugh bubbling up again, followed by the ulcer churning) or the Gestapo was likely to show up and drag Hogan off to Berlin.

He couldn't let that happen.

Not usually a man to swear, Klink silently swore to himself as he watched his senior POW officer chatting with his men. He couldn't let that happen. Like him, hate him… it didn't matter. Klink had a duty and a responsibility to this prisoner in his charge and he had to do what was right. The Luftwaffe had once abrogated its responsibility by turning Hogan over to the Gestapo and Klink could not let it happen again. General Burkhalter had as much as ordered him not to let it happen again.

He might not be able to prevent it. One day Hogan would just go too far.

Klink had to show the authorities something. What was it he had thought a moment ago? _Buried microphones. _Hmm… maybe if he planted a microphone in Hogan's quarters, finally he'd gain the upper hand and give his superiors whatever it was they sought.

Brilliant, Klink thought. A scheme worthy of Hogan himself. It couldn't fail. Who was manipulating who now?!

* * *

_Episode 7, "A German Bridge is Falling Down". _

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Sergeant Kinchloe hadn't found Colonel Hogan in any of the usual places, so he sought out another, pondering as he strode across the camp.

The 'official' mission, by orders from London, was escape and rescue, and that they did, but the limitation seemed to annoy Hogan. He was impatient. Impatient to make things happen, to push the fight to full throttle. 'Sabotage' had been the first thing Hogan had mentioned to Kinch about his plan. While he wasn't quite as fanatical as Carter about wanting to make things blow up, there was a definite tendency in that direction. Probably a sound trait to have in the commander of a bomber group. He wanted to strike. To strike back. Kinch never commented on that observation to the colonel, but simply tucked it away into his quietly growing list of observations.

Sergeant Kinchloe genuinely liked this officer who treated him, in every regard save military rank, as an equal. And when rank was set aside, Kinch decided they were friends. It was on that premise that he approached Hogan.

As he occasionally did, Hogan stood at the western edge of the camp, staring out toward the setting sun. No one fretted any longer that he was going 'wire happy', it was merely a place he went to contemplate. What he contemplated now, Kinch could only guess, but there'd been a mail call yesterday, a pretty good one, but the colonel had been withdrawn since receiving several letters.

"Colonel," Kinch said quietly, by way of warning, as he approached, though it rarely was possible to sneak up on Hogan.

"Hey, Kinch." Hogan glanced at him, then returned to gazing at the sky.

"Enjoying the sunset, sir?" Kinch asked in a carefully querying tone. Using the Krauts' own explosives to blow up a bridge had been a stroke of genius, Kinch thought. Colonel Hogan should be happy, not looking like his dog just died. Though, Kinch considered, maybe it had. What news had he gotten in the mail?

Hogan obviously recognized the 'how are you/what's wrong with you?' intonation, turning to Kinch with a grin. "I'm fine, Kinch. Just…" he turned back toward the west, "wishing myself home."

"Problems at home, sir? Did you get some news?" Kinch asked. This time, would Hogan open up a bit?

Nodding slowly, but still staring westward, Hogan said, "Yes, and no. A letter from my mom… a little too much got through the censors."

"Too much?" Everyone's incoming letters were censored—twice, first by the Allies and then by the Germans. The distress usually came from trying to figure out what was being said that had been blacked out, not in having too much come through.

Hogan heaved a sigh. "Pieces of information making a scary picture, some from Mom, some from London, some from Klink."

"How's that?" Kinch's brow furrowed in concern. Those three information sources really shouldn't overlap.

Scanning around to see if they were alone, Hogan said, "Mom wrote and asked if I'd heard from my uncle. Wanted to know if I could write to him."

Kinch shrugged and shook his head. "I don't see the problem…"

"The problem is what the address would be on such a letter," Hogan said.

"Oh," Kinch said, not understanding. "Oh!" He suddenly understood.

"Yeah," Hogan said shortly. "Let's just say such a letter would not have to go airmail."

"Surely your mother knows…"

Hogan sighed again. "She's just worried about her brother. She didn't actually say anything the Krauts could get any information from, just… It just scares me anyhow." Hogan shrugged. "With Grandma and Granddad gone, and Dad… me stuck here… her brother is about the only family she's got left and she hasn't heard from him since September '38."

"What happened then?"

Cocking a sideways glance at Kinch, Hogan said, "It's the last time I was here before the war started. I tried to get him to leave but he wouldn't go, wouldn't leave his country, no matter how"—Hogan used a harsh German word Kinch didn't know, but he guessed the meaning and didn't ask for a translation—"up his country might be. I warned him then not try to contact Mom, or me. It would endanger him and it would endanger us."

"Why?" Kinch asked, trying to puzzle it out. "Why then? The war didn't start for years."

Hogan shook his head. "The _U.S._ didn't get into it for years. Some of us saw it coming long before." He looked distant as Kinch saw him stare off into the twilight. "September '38—the Munich Agreement. Remember? 'Peace in our time' as Czechoslovakia was sold out to the Nazis. In March, Hitler took the rest and that was that for appeasement." Hogan snorted derisively. "No peace. No appeasement. No terms of surrender or truce that will ever be met. We have to crush them. Destroy them utterly. Whatever the cost. This fight's to the bloody end."

Kinch stared at the colonel in astonishment. "Geez, Colonel. I had no idea."

"Huh?" Hogan seemed to be coming back to Stalag 13 and Kinch from a distance of both time and space. "No idea of what?"

Stumbling a bit for how to say what he meant, Kinch said, "I mean, sir, I knew you were awfully serious about fighting the Nazis, but I had no idea how far back you went with this, or how personal it was."

"I shouldn't be talking about this at all," Hogan said. "Klink let slip that the Gestapo is still interested in me, and in that last coded message I had from London, they told me that a German agent had been arrested in the U.S. and that, among other things, he had info on him about me. They were trying to get background information on me. Someone in Berlin is still investigating me. And that puts the rest of you and the mission in peril."

"We're all aware of the danger, Colonel Hogan," Kinch said, low. "We're all volunteers and we each got our reasons for being in this. You don't have to worry about us."

Hogan chuckled. "Yes, I do. It's part of the job description."

"Do you know if your uncle is still alive?" Kinch asked.

Shaking his head, Hogan said, "No. And I haven't tried to find out."

"We could…"

"No," Hogan snapped. "And then what? I can't send the information to Mom in a letter. I can't pass it through London. Not worth the risk."

Kinch glanced at the darkening sky. "Maybe we better continue this conversation in your quarters, sir."

Hogan grinned. "Maybe we better not. Klink bugged it. But I got an idea of how we can use that."

* * *

_Episode10, "Top Hat, White Tie And Bomb Sight"— Klink hides a microphone in Hogan's quarters. Hogan takes advantage of that to seed Klink with the idea he'd become pro-German, ready to defect and give the Germans information on the Norden bombsight. Hogan tells Klink his family name was really Hoganmuller and he was German "from way back". _

* * *

Being summoned to Klink's quarters during the night was not so unusual that it caused Hogan any concern. Was it about the fake Norden bombsight information? Oh, Burkhalter and Klink had been hopping mad, but what could they do? Or was the Kommandant just interested in another chess match to wile away the 'dull' prison evenings. Hogan hoped a game wouldn't run too late, he had plans he wanted to work on, though keeping Klink off balance was always in the plans.

"You asked to see me, Kommandant?" Hogan queried politely as he entered.

Klink sat at a small table in his sitting room, papers spread across it. Hogan recognized his own file, with its tab colored that lovely bright red. "As I'm sure you're aware, Colonel Hogan," Klink said, not looking up from the papers, "General Burkhalter is quite upset over this latest incident." Score one for our side, Hogan thought. Klink went on, "I've been under orders for some time to send on to Berlin any information you may divulge, or reveal in my interrogations of you."

Hogan asked earnestly, "How's that going for you, sir?" Klink had tried outright questioning sessions a few times early on. He'd ended up frustrated and Hogan had fun. There remained no pretense left between them on the subject of 'interrogations'.

With a glower, Klink glanced up at him. His expression shifted. "One result of those orders is that I, in turn, am sometimes sent information that I am expected to use in questioning you." He held out a sheet of paper. "This information arrived today."

His smile dropping away as he took in Klink's serious expression, Hogan sat down opposite the Kommandant and took the offered sheet of paper. A small sound escaped him unbidden as he saw the contents of the sheet. He stared at it, fighting to compose himself.

Softly, Klink said, "For all the information you seem to possess in certain areas, I wasn't sure if you knew this."

"No, sir, I didn't," Hogan said, unable to make his voice rise above a whisper. The paper described his bomber, designation and name, and listed his crew by name, rank and serial number. Hogan ran a finger down the list. Four of the names were marked with small black crosses, each with a date. His finger stopped by his co-pilot's name. He had died the same day Hogan last saw him in the hospital. Hogan had to look away, closing his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again and looked up, Hogan saw Klink silently extending a glass of sherry to him, much as he had the day Hogan had arrived at Stalag 13. He took it shakily.

"Thank you, Kommandant, for showing me that," Hogan finally managed.

Klink nodded. "I believe all the families have been properly notified," he said.

"Good."

Silence stretched between them for a long time. Finally Hogan downed the liquor in a single gulp and set the glass down.

"I, too, have lost comrades," Klink said quietly. Hogan stared at him, seeing him in a new way. He'd always played Klink with the 'we're colleagues, though enemies' aspect of their relationship, using the fellow-officers, fellow-aviators aspect to Hogan's advantage. Suddenly he realized that, for Klink, it was quite real. Klink didn't have to show him this, much less treat the moment as solemnly and respectfully as though it were a funeral for one of Klink's own comrades. Hogan looked at the Kommandant with a new sense of respect. Maybe there was more depth to the man than he had thought.

Or maybe Hogan was just having a moment of weakness.

Or maybe, just barely maybe, Klink was playing him.

Another moment of silence passed, then Klink, obviously trying to shift the mood, shuffled and straightened the scattered papers, tucking them into the folder. He looked up at Hogan. "Colonel, as I'm sure you're aware, my superiors, and… others… have taken a certain interest in you." He leaned forward, staring at Hogan with obvious worry in his eyes. "If you don't want to be taken to Berlin for more Gestapo questioning, please, Hogan, you have to give me something I can send them. Some new piece of information that will keep them at bay."

"Don't know what I can give you, Kommandant," Hogan said truthfully. "Name, rank, and serial number is all there is."

"It doesn't have to be anything useful." Klink sounded positively imploring. "Any tidbit would help. Heaven knows I don't want to hear anything more about top-secret bombsights!"

How serious was this, Hogan wondered. "Okay… tell them I commanded the 504th."

"They already know that," Klink said with frustration in his voice.

"Not from me," Hogan said.

"How about something personal," Klink suggested. "That would be harmless, wouldn't it? Here… mother's name and address. How about that?"

Hogan shook his head. "They already know that, too, from letters I send," he said coldly. Klink did not know what he was probing into here. Hopefully.

Klink shuffled through his papers. "No. You always address them with your father's name, and 'Mrs.'. Bridgeport, Connecticut."

With a shrug, Hogan said, "The letters get delivered. The ones your censors don't stop."

"Fine," Klink said tersely. "There seem to be about five different choices of your place of birth. Perhaps you could narrow that list?" Hogan only smiled at him. "Or not," Klink conceded with a frustrated sigh. "What did you do before the war?" Klink asked, then immediately added, "No, don't tell me… 'plumber's assistant'. You and about nine hundred other prisoners in camp here."

Hogan stood. "Sorry, Kommandant," he said, actually meaning it. "It's just the way it's gotta be. Thank you, sir, for the information about my crew."

Without waiting for Klink to dismiss him, Hogan turned and headed out into the night.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

Advisory: _Some moderately strong German curse words used in this chapter._

**Chapter 5**

**

* * *

**

_Episode 13, "Hogan's Hofbrau": Hogan is after information about a Panzer division in the area, from two Panzer officers, Captain Milheiser and Lieutenant Durnitz, who are also blackmailing Klink for 5000 Marks. This episode is the first time in the series Klink absolutely had to hear Hogan speaking fluent German_

**

* * *

**

He didn't have the money.

Klink paged futilely through his account books again and again. There was simply no way to create the five thousand Marks those Panzers claiming to be from Winter Relief demanded of him. Every bit he could squeeze from the camp funds had been squeezed over and over. He'd put himself into a position to be blackmailed years before and there was simply no way out of it. And now he had not enough funds remaining to pay this newest batch of blackmailers.

With an exhausted sigh, Klink flipped the account pages again. It occurred to him, briefly—_very_ briefly--to consult Colonel Hogan about the problem. Hogan certainly had ideas about a great many things; innovative solutions to problems. Klink stared up unseeing at the wall. No, not even Hogan could manufacture money out of thin air to solve this problem.

Everything was all about to come tumbling down.

Time to face the music, Klink thought bitterly as he stood and shrugged into his topcoat. He let a hand linger a moment over his violin as he left. He could only hope a shred of decency in his _other_ blackmailers would surface when their next payment failed to appear.

Klink glanced around the office, not sure if he'd ever be seeing it again.

* * *

"Hogan!" Klink couldn't stop himself from blurting the name as he glumly strode into the Hofbrau. Donnerwetter... an escape by his senior POW on top of everything else?

No.

Mein Gott. Worse.

Hogan. In a German major's uniform. Chatting easily with those two blackmailing Panzer officers.

Klink went blank a moment.

"Not Hogan, Hoople," Hogan blustered, obviously thrown by Klink's appearance, but not quite as thrown as Klink by the encounter.

Regrouping the instant Hogan/Hoople caused all that nice, crisp money to appear, Klink felt a dozen burdens lift, making the new issue of his prisoner being in a German uniform with five thousand (really very surprisingly crisp and new) Marks. Never mind that just now. It was the goose who laid the golden egg that saved Klink's precious hide. "I was just starting to enjoy the major's company," Klink said cheerfully when Hogan/Hoople announced he had to leave, quite willing to overlook--for the moment--the unavoidable facts of the matter.

The (painfully weak) explanation, it was good-hearted Sergeant Schultz and the prisoners volunteering to work to raise the money to save their beloved Kommandant, came the next day when Klink threatened Hogan with arrest as a spy by the Gestapo. Five thousand Marks raised by Hogan, Schultz, and the prisoners out of their deep, pure love for Kommandant Klink…

Klink's brief spasm of warmth was tempered by one uncomfortably inconvenient thought: The Hofbrau didn't make that much money in a year.

* * *

Gulping shots of schnapps like they were water, Klink alternated pacing his quarters with sitting nervously in front of his sitting room table shuffling through the papers in the file on Colonel Hogan.

Donnerwetter.

No, the word was too mild.

Hogan was a spy. Right in his camp, right in his midst. Right under Klink's nose.

Impossible.

The story about Schultz and the prisoners working at the Hofbrau had to be correct. Mein Gott, mein Gott, mein Gott...

Hogan in a German major's uniform, passing himself off as a German officer--successfully!--to two Panzer officers. Those Panzers hadn't suspected, not for a moment, that they were really speaking to an American officer. An American _agent_. Those Panzers... Hogan was obviously after something from them. Information, probably. That meant he had a way to pass it on to... someone. The Underground, most likely. How could he do it? Klink gave an exasperated snort and stood once again to pace rapidly. Dozens of ways. Bribes to guards, to civilians entering the camp, dozens of ways. Hogan had five thousand Marks in his possession. No... he'd _used_ five thousand Marks to save Klink. Heaven only knew how much money he really had available.

Prisoners could be resourceful, no doubt about it. The prison camp commander's newsletter told of the many innovations POWs managed. Radios... Certainly Hogan had a radio. Klink doubted there was a Luftstalag in all of Germany where the prisoners lacked a radio. A receiver, absolutely. But a transmitter? Was it possible? There was more, homemade cameras, forgery equipment, manufactured civilian clothing and uniforms, all aimed at escape.

Escape... But Hogan wasn't trying to escape. Klink shook his head. He was not. Hogan walked out while Klink remained in the Hofbrau. Hogan could have walked to the train station and vanished--Schultz was nowhere in sight. No. No escape. Hogan had just sat with the two Panzers, talking with them.

_Talking with them..._

Klink groaned aloud as the other piece of the (overwhelming, alarming, terrifying) puzzle that had struck him fell into place.

It was the first time he'd heard Hogan speaking German when he was unaware Klink was listening. From the beginning he'd realized Hogan understood German well, and Hogan had immediately dropped the pretense that he didn't. But Hogan always conducted their conversations exclusively in English. That didn't bother Klink. Other than some mysterious American idioms, he was at ease speaking English. The small bits of German Klink had heard Hogan speak had been clear enough, but slightly awkward, slightly stilted, as though the accent didn't come naturally. He had sounded, as Klink would expect, _foreign_. If Hogan could understand German well, it didn't automatically mean he could speak it comfortably.

Comfortably enough to pass as a native.

Klink whimpered.

Those two Panzer officers hadn't suspected for an instant Hogan wasn't a genuine German officer. And he hadn't sounded stilted or awkward when speaking. And he hadn't sounded foreign. He hadn't sounded American. He had sounded entirely natural. Entirely fluent. Just as a spy should... just as a spy must.

Klink gulped down another shot of schnapps.

That Hogan was clever was not a new thought to Klink. That Hogan schemed and manipulated was not a new thought to Klink. That Hogan might be acting as a spy from within Klink's own prison camp...?

Klink shuddered and poured another glass.

He should turn Hogan in to the Gestapo right now, tell them about the uniform and the Panzers and everything. He should. It was his duty. If he was wrong, well, so much the better and he'd look the fool. Klink snorted softly. If he was right... he'd still look the fool, but he'd look the fool in front of a firing squad right alongside Hogan.

To do nothing was to betray his country. It was his duty to call the Gestapo with his suspicions. But to call the Gestapo was also to betray his duty, his duty to himself, to his sense of honor, and to those under his protection, Hogan included. Betray his country... His country? Or Hitler's Third Reich? And were they the same thing?

If he drank the whole bottle maybe he'd pass out and forget the entire thing.

* * *

Hogan glanced away from the baseball game to see the Kommandant approaching, marching up in his officious way, one arm cocked behind his back clutching his riding crop (had the man ever even been on a horse?), the other clenched in his 'iron fist' gesture. Sometimes Klink looked like a cartoon version of Klink, Hogan thought even as he nodded pleasantly to the Kommandant.

"Good afternoon, sir," Hogan said.

"Ah, baseball," Klink said, stopping beside Hogan. "I'd heard of it before, but had never seen it played until American prisoners started to arrive in Stalag 13. Is this the same way you play the game in America?"

Hogan nodded. "Pretty much. There is one critical difference. In the States, if you hit one over the fence they don't shoot you."

"Mmm..." Klink turned to watch the game.

He has something on his mind, Hogan thought, as they watched silently for several minutes. The encounter with the Panzers at the Hofbrau? No. Klink had bought the explanation hook, line and sinker. Schultz, as ever, backed any story Hogan threw out; had even earned a three-day pass from Klink as a reward.

"I never heard you speak German like that before," Klink ventured in an overly casual way after a few minutes.

"How's that, sir?" Hogan asked coolly, inwardly cringing. Time for some diversionary double-talk.

"You sounded quite… convincing," Klink said. "If I didn't know better, it would be almost possible to mistake you for a German, speaking like that."

Almost? "I've been studying," Hogan said dismissively, focusing on the game. "Hey, how 'bout that pitch?!" he added, trying to shift Klink's focus to the game. Hogan winced as he heard the tone of his voice come out in just a tad too high. At a subtle hand gesture from Hogan, his men cheered the actually mediocre pitch with wild enthusiasm.

It must have worked for Klink didn't seem to notice Hogan's discomfort, but did watch the game for a few moments more before off-handedly commenting, "You sound like a Berliner."

Scheiβe. Double-Scheiβe. "Do I?" Back in control, Hogan carefully applied a tone of surprise. "Hmm. Must have picked it up from one of the guards."

"Of course," Klink said agreeably. There was a pause as the bat cracked against the ball, sending it flying over the fence.

"Home run," Hogan commented.

Klink glanced at him, appearing startled. "So that's where that comes from?"

"Sir?"

"_Home run,_" Klink repeated. "It's also what prisoners call a successful escape."

"Probably coincidence, sir," Hogan said. "Escaping British POWs called it that long before Americans got in the game."

"Coincidence," Klink echoed. "Yes, I'm sure that's what it is. Coincidence." He started to turn away, pausing to add, "We don't have any guards from Berlin."

Hogan stared after the Kommandant as he marched rapidly away.

* * *

_Episode 27, "The Safecracker Suite": Klink's name appears at the top of a list of conspirators his friend, Major Hans Kronman, is trying to enlist to assassinate Hitler. Kronman is arrested and shot by the Gestapo. Hogan gets a safecracker, Alfie the Artist, from England to blast open a hotel safe--with Klink's knowing participation--and recovers the list._

* * *

It grew easier to 'look the other way' as time progressed. As long as there were no successful escapes, Klink was able to 'see nothing' and his superiors remained happy. Somehow it all worked out. Playing the blind fool to Hogan's endless strange schemes was far, far easier than trying to sort them out and discover what was _really_ taking place. If he could. Not that he could. Not that he dare try.

Had he crossed a line somewhere when he was 'seeing nothing', Klink sometimes wondered as he nursed an almost constant headache and growing ulcer. He was a loyal German officer, he stoutly reassured himself time and again. Loyal...

Then a welcome bit of happiness entered his office, in the form of an old friend. "Hansie! Hansie Kronman!" Klink greeted him eagerly. Unlike some others in his military class, Hans Kronman had always liked and respected Klink as a true friend. This looked like it might be a pleasant, Hogan-free, day after all.

So much for that, Klink thought dismally only minutes later when the Gestapo dragged his friend away on accusations of treason. Such is life in the glorious Third Reich, Klink mused, as he staunchly disavowed even knowing his doomed friend. Then Hogan waved a safe deposit box key in front of his face and Klink knew the time had finally come when he had to openly acknowledge Hogan's ability to do things no prisoner of war ought to be able to do.

"...have to look the other way..." Hogan put it bluntly. That slightly hysterical bubble rose in Klink's throat as he fought panic. His own life over duty to the Reich? The internal debate didn't even take a minute. Anything. Anything Hogan wanted, Klink would do... or not do... or not see.

Where was that line, Klink wondered as he let the flame of the burning, damning list of Kronman's--with his own name terrifyingly at the top--banish thoughts of prisoners who could manage to blow hotel safes open. Where, indeed, was that line? In front of Klink, or behind? He hadn't actually done anything treasonous, had he? He'd saved himself from a false accusation, that's all. False. Totally false. Never mind how it had been done. No prisoners had escaped in the process and Berlin was happy.

* * *

"What does it mean," was the only thing Klink asked Hogan about the entire incident, "this 'tinker, evers, chance' thing you said?"

Hogan smiled at the Kommandant. _That_ was the only question he had to ask about everything that had happened? Explosions. Diversions. Strange little men appearing in camp and then disappearing. Yet the only thing Klink asked about was an off-hand comment Hogan made when he snatched the list away from Klink. "It's a baseball reference, Kommandant," Hogan told him, unable to keep a hint of amusement out of his voice. He didn't even try. Klink was a marvel... of daftness. "First double-play ever in the game. Joe Tinker to Johnny Evers to Frank Chance. They did it again to win the World Series."

"Double-play," Klink repeated, nodding rapidly. "I don't need to know what that is to understand what it means," he said. "All part of the game..."

Letting the word trail off, Klink strode rapidly away, leaving Hogan to stare after him, wondering.

* * *

_Episode 29, "The Assassin": A German atomic scientist, Dr. Vanetti, is brought to Stalag 13 by General Burkhalter to work in the 'quiet'. Col. Crittendon foils the assassination attempt Hogan plans, leading to Hogan helping Vanetti defect and escape. Klink makes it clear in this episode, while with Crittendon, that he's not a Nazi party member._

_(referenced) Episode 28, "I Look Better in Basic Black": three USO show girls are taken to Stalag 13 as a stop on the way to Berlin because they saw a German rocket installation. This is one of those historical anachronism episodes, but I'm letting it stay in sequence anyhow._

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe didn't wonder at the coldness in Colonel Hogan's voice, or his deadly attitude, when he announced, "We gotta kill him," as they listened over the 'coffeepot' bug from Klink's office. He understood and agreed with the colonel though, as the others pointed out, assassination really didn't 'sound like them'. What caused Kinch to really ponder was, again, his commander's knowledge of Germany and its structure. Those three girls just last week had vaguely described a road and a church spire from which Colonel Hogan immediately identified the location of the German rocket installation.

Now Hogan heard a list of names and "Universität Göttingen"--University of Göttingen--and he immediately knew Dr. Vanetti was an atomic scientist who was dangerous beyond measure. How did he know these things, Kinch wondered in distinctly unsurprised astonishment. Having personal ties to Germany was one thing, lots of Americans did. Kinch hadn't learned German from a textbook either. Sure, it meant Hogan knew the language and culture, but it was a far cry from a summer visit to uncle what's-his-name in Berlin to this sort of in-depth, detailed intelligence information on the country. Not even intelligence briefings as commander of a bombing group would provide this level of information. Who and what was their Colonel Hogan?

Something else occurred to Kinch, that he tucked quietly away into his growing list of puzzlements--why would General Burkhalter place such an important scientist smack dab in the middle of one thousand enemy soldiers? More specifically, right in front of Colonel Hogan? Or was Burkhalter as utterly blind as Klink?

* * *

_Evers to Chance..._ Klink thought as the door opened and 'Chance'--Colonel Hogan--burst in. _Here comes the play. _

"I can't leave you with him," Klink protested about leaving Dr. Vanetti alone with Hogan, even as he knew he would just that. And, later, as he stared at the bomb crater with Hogan and General Burkhalter, Klink feigned shock along with Hogan that such a brilliant scientist could be dummkopf enough to blow himself up... without explosives. Without leaving a scorched body. Or even parts of a body. Did Hogan really think he was so ignorant of the ways of war to believe as small an explosion as that left no trace of the victim? Yet General Burkhalter seemed satisfied with the explanation, and none of the prisoners had escaped...

Perhaps the doctor in town had something Klink could take for his indigestion. The aspirin he gulped for the endless headache only seemed to make his stomach worse.

* * *

_Episode 33, "Hogan Gives a Birthday Party": Hogan encounters General Biedenbender, the one responsible for shooting him down. Stealing the general's plane, Hogan uses it to bomb a German refinery._

* * *

"...the weather in Indianapolis?" General Biedenbender casually asked, causing Klink and Hogan to exchange a surprised glance. One of Hogan's many possible hometowns. Then the General twisted the knife a bit more, making both Klink and Hogan visibly uncomfortable with his apparent knowledge of the Senior POW officer. Biedenbender... yes, Klink recalled the name. An illegible notation in Hogan's file. Hogan was setting up means to gain access to a Heinkel bomber. Biedenbender immediately flew to the same train of thought as all the others, the same one Klink still clung to for comfort at times--it's all part of a plan to escape. But the nagging voice starting to lean toward an outright migraine insisted, _Your fence could be made of cobwebs, Hogan won't escape. He's up to something else and Biedenbender is walking right into it._

"There have been some strange things here from time to time, sir," Klink admitted, "but never an escape." Always the trump card with the higher echelons.

"You have an eagle in your cage," Biedenbender told him. Hogan favored Klink with a 'who me?' shrug. This piece of information Klink did not need. He knew it.

"...at least not before tonight," Hogan said far too casually, when asked why it mattered when the General, and his Heinkel, departed. Biedenbender... phaw! He thought he knew Hogan so well. Now who's being played for a fool? Even Klink could see through Hogan's over-obvious manipulation this time and enjoyed more than a little that the arrogant General couldn't.

But what was the game?

After both of his guests had left, Klink stepped out onto the porch of his quarters and stared at the moonlight reflecting off the barbed wire fence. Bomber's moon, he thought with a shudder. He glanced over toward Barracks Two. If he ordered a snap roll call right now, what would he find? A delay, a diversion, a stall? Undoubtedly. What if he simple strode across the compound and entered Hogan's barracks?

A low drone caught his attention. Ah, that would be the general's Heinkel bomber taking off. Hmph. Fly well, General.

_Evers to Chance._ No. Klink wouldn't order a special roll call. Not tonight. Fly well.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

_Episode 35, "Diamonds in the Rough": Caught while meeting a woman working for the Gestapo, Hogan orders Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau to surrender, too. Instead of being arrested, they are blackmailed for a million dollars in diamonds by Gestapo Colonel Hegel. Hogan goes to Klink for help with the problem._

_

* * *

_

"_...we will see to it that you and your men are severely punished. You will be taken to Berlin for further questioning..." _

Hogan jerked awake, the words still racing through his head in a black whirl. Yanking on the light over his bunk, he sat up abruptly. With his breath coming in short, fast pants, Hogan strove to banish the images still more vivid before his eyes than the bland reality of his quarters.

Wiping the back of his hand across his brow, Hogan fumbled for his wristwatch on the shelf by his bunk. Two a.m. He dropped his watch back on the shelf and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees he buried his face in his hands and tried to concentrate on something--_anything_--else.

A soft rap at the door startled Hogan. He hadn't cried out in his sleep, had he? Talking in one's sleep could be a deadly habit in his line of work.

"Come in," Hogan called quietly, trying to quickly collect himself.

Kinch peered in around the door. Entering the office, Kinch studied him closely. Hogan recognized the look he was getting. He frowned.

"Saw your light, sir," Kinch whispered, crossing to the desk.

"What are you doing up?" Hogan asked, a touch more harshly than he intended. He was not in a mood to have Kinch try to play nursemaid to him.

"Couldn't sleep, Colonel," Kinch said, his tone mild. "You either?"

"I'm fine, Sergeant," Hogan grated. "Go back to bed."

Kinch didn't let the overt formality deter him. He pulled a chair up and sat down, still examining Hogan closely. It made Hogan feel oddly exposed, as though Kinch could see into his mind.

Maybe he could, for Kinch quietly asked, "Nightmares, sir? About the Gestapo?"

"Are you psychic now too?" Hogan asked with a short humorless laugh. He heaved a long sigh and gave in to Kinch's sympathetic concern. "Yeah. This thing with Hegel... and then that other Gestapo officer saying he'd haul us all to Berlin to be 'severely punished' and questioned." Hogan shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. "It shouldn't bother me. We got out of it fine. We're in the clear."

"Why shouldn't it bother you, Colonel?" Kinch asked, low but intently. "We were listening over the coffeepot. We heard what he said. I'll tell you, sir, it gave all of us a bit of an uncomfortable moment. Heck! It bothers _me_."

"It shouldn't bother me because it shouldn't," Hogan snapped. "Listen. I don't want to talk about it. Okay? Just go back to bed."

Kinch stayed silent, and unmoving, a long moment. "If I may say, Colonel," formality fought worry in his tone, "it doesn't matter if it should or shouldn't bother you. The fact is, it does. If you'll forgive me saying, I think you should talk about it. Get some of it out of your system."

Hogan didn't answer. He did want to unburden, but it wasn't right. Kinch was under his command. Hogan couldn't impose on him that way; couldn't violate his own self-imposed sense of confidentiality.

Softer, Hogan finally said, "It's all right, Kinch. Some day, when this is all over, I'll find a bartender who doesn't know me and doesn't care and bore him with the whole nasty story. But not now. It wouldn't be right."

Kinch gave Hogan a small grin. "Well, I can't meet most of those criteria, but I can manage part of it. Wait a moment, sir." Standing quickly, Kinch slipped back into main barracks, returning shortly with a wine bottle and two coffee cups.

"Oh, thanks, Kinch," Hogan said, waving his hand, "but I'm really not in a mood for any fancy French wine. Or bad homemade wine, for that matter."

"Ain't wine, sir," Kinch said, with a grin. Hogan squinted at him, puzzled but intrigued. Kinch wasn't one for slang like 'ain't'. "It's pure Yankee rotgut. American moonshine. Some of the boys in Barracks Sixteen kinda built a still, as an experiment, mind you. Then they managed to get a hold of some rye. And one thing led to another and I just felt it was my duty to 'inspect' the production. For safety and quality. Strictly on your behalf, of course, sir."

"Very thorough, Sergeant," Hogan intoned solemnly, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Pouring out solid half cupfuls into the mugs, Kinch handed one to Hogan, still grinning. "Here's to what ails you," Kinch toasted, raising his cup.

"Can't argue with that," Hogan said, surrendering. He swallowed a gulp, then choked. "My God!" he coughed, "that's almost pure alcohol."

"Great, isn't it?" Kinch grinned broadly. "A little taste of home. Tastes like Prohibition."

"Yeah, it does," Hogan agreed with a chuckle, clinking his cup to Kinch's. "To noble experiments gone wrong," he said. "You can imagine how well Prohibition went over with the folks in Milwaukee," Hogan commented idly, trying to divert both memories and conversation to other subjects. "Beer-making capital of the world, and better than half the city German-American, and suddenly no beer. Well... not legally."

"So..." Kinch stretched out the word, "Milwaukee's your hometown?"

Hogan grinned at him. "You sound like Klink trying to be subtle." The next swallow went down smoother, spreading a warmth through him. He trusted Kinchloe. Absolutely. And it felt good to talk with someone without it being a game, a ploy, or a manipulation.

"Well, sir, you just never talk much about your family or hometown. I mean, you talk about a bunch of places, but never just one. Bridgeport, mainly, and mostly about the girls. You've mentioned Milwaukee, Indianapolis, Cleveland... Where is home?" Kinch asked.

With a slow smile, Hogan said, "All of 'em." He shrugged. "And none of 'em. We moved around a lot."

"Army brat?" Kinch asked suddenly, as if figuring something out.

"Points for the sergeant," Hogan conceded with a smile. "Dad was Army. Bridgeport, Connecticut was his hometown. His family is Connecticut Yankees. English background, with just a pinch of Irish for temper. I'm sure you've noticed that." He quirked a sideways grin. "Had some distant kin in England, too. Gave me some automatic credentials with the British when I first showed up on their doorstep."

Hogan saw Kinch abruptly add two and two and two and come up with the correct sum judging from the look of revelation on his face. "Good gosh, Colonel... you weren't just with the RAF, you were with MI-6, before the war even started, weren't you? And," his voice dropped to a bare whisper, "American secret service?"

"Don't ever say that out loud again," Hogan warned in a deadly serious voice.

"I won't, sir," Kinch said, his expression distant and thoughtful. "It explains a lot, though." Hogan gave him a questioning look. "I mean, Colonel, how quickly and easily the British went along with your plan here at Stalag 13. Not just any American pilot, of any rank, could pull off such a thing, and get Command to go along with it. I mean, without the credentials, you could be just, you know... another Crittendon, but worse, a Crittendon from the uncivilized wilds of America. They wouldn't have given you the time of day, except they knew, in advance, you had the qualifications and connections to really make it work."

Hogan nodded. "You said it the day I arrived here," he said to Kinch, "that at least one person in the unit had to know the country, the people, and the language, intimately." He cocked a quizzical look at Kinch. "You're from Detroit, that's the Great Lakes area too, anything in common strike you about Indianapolis, Cleveland, and Milwaukee?"

Kinch thought for a moment. "Germans. German-Americans. Lots of 'em," he said.

"Yup. Three of the biggest concentrations of German-Americans in the US. You were as likely to hear German spoken as English, at least up until the last war when anti-German sentiments made things a little dicey and lots of 'Schmidts' became 'Smiths'. Grew up in all three places, with Mom's family, when Dad was away. Learned German like a native as a kid 'cause I learned it from natives," Hogan said.

"Your mom's from Germany?" Kinch asked.

Hogan shook his head. "No. She was born in the States. And so was her mother, my grandma. It was Granddad who came over from the Old Country."

"Now, I thought you said your mother had a brother here. Your uncle?"

"Half-brother," Hogan said. "Granddad had a wife and family here. His son--my uncle--was already grown when Granddad's wife died. Granddad came to the US, to visit family there, met a younger woman--my grandmother--married her, settled down and had another family. My mother." Hogan shook his head. "Klink thinks questions about my family would be harmless to pass on to the Gestapo, to keep them satisfied. He has no idea what kind of hornet's nest that would be poking in to." He shrugged. "So I keep it quiet and keep it vague. The Gestapo cannot be allow to put all the pieces together..."

Trailing off, Hogan gulped another swallow of the moonshine. He leaned back against the wall and let out a sigh slowly. "I didn't think it would get to me like it did," he said distractedly.

"The Gestapo?" Kinch probed, low. "Hegel?"

Hogan nodded. He sipped slowly, but stopped seeing his quarters. Instead he stared again down the barrel of the Gestapo woman's pistol, felt it digging into his back, then came his choice... Hogan swallowed hard. "You weren't there, Kinch. I ordered the others to throw down their guns rather than let myself get shot in the back. I let the Gestapo capture all of us." He gulped down the rest of the 'shine and let Kinch refill his cup. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Yes, sir, you should have," Kinch said firmly. "I wasn't there, but I heard the others tell it. Not a one thinks you made the wrong call. It didn't even cross their minds. We're all in this together, Colonel Hogan."

"It was just blind luck Hegel was more interested in blackmailing us for that million dollars' worth of diamonds than he was in doing his duty," Hogan went on. "He had us. Had us cold. Had all of us and the whole operation. He had _me_ and I let him get the others."

"Was that what you were having a nightmare about?" Kinch asked very softly.

Hogan glanced up, actually seeing Kinch again. "That's the funny part. Hegel didn't get to me nearly as much as that one who came to question me about how Hegel got killed. He really threw me for a loop."

"It didn't seem like you were bothered by him, sir," Kinch commented. "You lied to him as smooth as could be. Even Klink noticed it. You didn't sound rattled at all."

"It wasn't that," Hogan said, shaking his head. "It was at the end, when he said he was gonna take us to Berlin for more questioning. I couldn't answer that. Not a damned thing I could say."

With a shrug, Kinch said, "That's when Klink stepped in. Stopped him."

"Yeah," Hogan said. "Klink saved us. Wasn't sure he'd stand up to the Gestapo that way, but he did." Hogan gave a little snort. "He saved us twice."

They were both silent a moment as Kinch refilled their cups with the last of the 'shine in the bottle. Then, not looking at Hogan, Kinch said, "It made you remember. Didn't it, sir? It made you remember what the Gestapo did to you when you were first captured."

Maybe it was the rye whiskey, or maybe the calm understanding of Kinchloe, or maybe just the need to unburden had finally reached the point of boiling over. In a low monotone, Hogan said, "It came back to me like I was still there. It was the oddest thing. Not so much like I was seeing things--not, you know, crazy--but like a flash of feeling how I felt then just like it was happening all over again."

"And how was that you felt?" Kinch nudged.

"Helpless," Hogan said simply.

"What did they do, sir?" Kinch's voice was quietly insistent.

"The worst moment of it... the actual _worst_, it wasn't when they locked me in the dark, or starved me, or... any of the rest. It wasn't even when they were torturing that man and telling me they wouldn't stop unless I talked. The worst moment was when they told _him_ they wouldn't stop unless I talked." Hogan swallowed another gulp of the whiskey, seeing the scene again, but this time not looking away. "They actually treated me pretty well during that--decent food, a bed, light... But that day they put us in cells across from each other and they handcuffed me to the bars so I had to stand there facing him. I couldn't turn away. And he pleaded with me. And he begged. And then they came in and worked on him some more..." Hogan shuddered. "I never heard another human being scream that way before.

"I didn't even know that man," Hogan went on, "and yet they almost broke me right then. The thought of going through that when it's someone I know, someone I care about, someone I'm responsible for..." He trailed off. "I should not have let Hegel capture us all."

"Colonel Hogan," Kinch said firmly, "you can't let that influence your decisions. We're your team, all volunteers. We're here to support you, not be a source of weakness to you. You can't let concern for us, personally, to affect what you do; what you have to do."

Looking up at Kinch, Hogan said bleakly, "I know. I know I can't. And I won't." He flashed a faint smile. "That's what gives me nightmares."

* * *

_Episode 37:"The Battle of Stalag 13": General Von Kattenhorn wants to seize Stalag 13 and convert it into a Wehrmacht rest camp, and Gestapo Colonel Feldkamp wants to use Stalag 13 as his headquarters to interrogate the citizens of Hammelburg, who are under suspicion because of Hogan's sabotage activities._

_Episode 34, "The Schultz Brigade" - -Klink conspires with Bussie and Burmeister to discredit General Burkhalter. Sentenced to death for it, Klink is saved by Hogan._

* * *

"...so I tell Klink he ought to plug his ears, and BOOM! We all hit the dirt and Klink asks what that was. Sounds like a staff car blowing up, I say. Then BOOM again. Coincidence, another staff car blowing up," Hogan told the tale to his small audience with animated hand gestures.

LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk all laughed. Kinch only managed a thoughtful smile as Colonel Hogan finished telling how they blew up a Wehrmacht general and a Gestapo colonel. Double-crossed each other, Hogan told Klink when the Kommandant demanded to know how Hogan knew in advance the cars would explode. Obviously, Von Kattenhorn and Feldkamp planted bombs in each other's cars.

"What did Klink say to that?" Carter asked eagerly.

"_Do you expect me to believe that?_" Hogan mimicked Klink almost to perfection. "No, I said. But it will sound better in your report to Berlin."

The others laughed again as Kinch carefully took in the story.

"You're playing with fire, sir," Kinch said as soon as he was alone with Colonel Hogan. They stood side-by-side leaning against the wall of Barracks Two, watching a volleyball game being played. "Telling Klink about the explosions before they happened. Telling him you didn't expect him to believe your cover story."

Hogan gave Kinch an irritated scowl. "I'm not playing with fire. I'm playing with Klink."

"Don't underestimate him, sir," Kinch said, not willing to take Hogan's clear 'drop it' tone. "I sometimes think he's a lot more sharp than we give him credit for."

"Hmph," Hogan snorted dismissively. "Don't you _over_estimate him. Klink's got exactly one thing stuck in his mind where we're concerned--no escapes. I don't think he can imagine anything more exotic than that being on the minds of the prisoners. As long as he has his perfect 'no escape' record, he'll keep his nose buried in his juggled books, building his nest egg for after the war."

Kinch shifted uncomfortably. It was the picture they all shared of the Kommandant-dumb, oblivious, and greedy--but listening closely to the stories Hogan told, and the conversations overheard from Klink's office, Kinch couldn't help but wonder if there was more to it than that. With a mental shrug, Kinch shoved the thought to the background. It was the colonel's business. He'd handled Klink successfully for quite some time now, even letting the Kommandant see some pretty blatant things without any ramifications.

They'd all laughed later over the Bussie/Burmeister incident, when the other two camp commanders enlisted the reluctant Klink into a plot against General Burkhalter. Klink had never commented on the fact that not only did Hogan have a pistol, he'd handed another to Klink. Of course, the Kommandant had been pretty scared, going from thinking he was going to be facing a firing squad to being in a gun battle in the middle of the night. Still, how could he not notice such a thing? Think about it? Wonder?

How could he...? Kinch had noticed the Kommandant standing outside his office staring at the flagpole/transmitter antenna over it in a way that suggested to Kinch it was something more than a man admiring his nation's flag.

The game was interrupted by a car entering the main gates, pulling to a stop in front of Klink's office. As ever, close attention was paid to anyone entering the camp. A Wehrmacht captain, emerged from the car. He scanned across the scattered prisoners before turning his attention to Klink, stepping up to the car to greet him.

As the captain turned their way, Kinch saw Hogan stiffen, straightening and staring with intensity.

"Oh, Jesus," Hogan whispered. To Kinch it sounded more like a whisper of actual prayer than thoughtless blaspheming.

"Trouble, sir?" Kinch asked.

Hogan didn't move until Klink and the captain disappeared into the Kommandant's office. When he turned toward Kinch, Colonel Hogan was visibly shaken.

"Colonel?" Kinch grew alarmed. "What is it? Who is that officer?"

Hogan took an unsteady breath before answering. "You remember those distant cousins I mentioned?"

"Yes, sir," Kinch said, staring hard.

"Well... that Wehrmacht captain is one of the not-so-distant ones," Hogan said.

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Stop looking at me that way," Hogan snapped at Kinch.

Kinch dropped his eyes. "Sorry, sir. It's just… you know… heck, Colonel, saying you got relatives in Germany is one thing, but having one show up _as a Kraut officer_ that's something else. It's... it's... _creepy._"

"You're telling me," Hogan said, sounding downright weary to Kinch.

"I guess I..." Kinch trailed off, unwilling to finish his thought out loud.

"What is it?" Hogan demanded.

Hesitantly, Kinch said, "Well, sir... I guess I just figured that any kin of yours here would be... you know... I guess I just figured they'd be in the Underground, or... Heck! _Fighting_ the Nazis, not fighting _for_ them." Hogan just turned away with a scowl. Kinch softened his tone. "You didn't know, did you? That he was in the Wehrmacht?"

Hogan rubbed his eyes. "Nope. I didn't know. And, yes, I'm surprised. No. I'm not." He groaned. "I don't know. I haven't seen Rudy since '38 and we got into a heckuva fight then."

"Rudy?"

"The… captain. That Wehrmacht captain. Captain Ritter. Herr Hauptman Ritter. My… cousin," Hogan said. Kinch couldn't decide which words the normally silken-tongued man stumbled over more.

"Why do you suppose he's here?" Kinch asked.

"Beats me." Hogan sighed. "Can't imagine it's good news." He paced back and forth in a short path in front of Kinch making the colonel's frustration and worry plainly visible to him.

Trying to put good face on it, Kinch said, "Well, maybe that's all it is, sir. Just news. Maybe he heard you were here and saw an opportunity to get in touch. You said your mom was worried about her brother. I'm sure the reverse is true. Maybe he's just here to get some news."

"Maybe," Hogan said doubtfully.

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz called as he huffed up to them.

"What is it, Schultz?" Hogan asked in a voice that told Kinch he already knew the answer.

Schultz came to a halt. "The Kommandant has invited you to dinner with him and that visiting captain."

"Invited? Or ordered?" Hogan asked.

With a bemused shrug, Schultz chuckled. "Is there a difference?"

Kinch inserted, "Who is that officer? What is he doing here?"

"I know nothing," Schultz told him sorrowfully. "I think he's just passing through. Honestly, they told me nothing."

"It's all right, Schultz," Hogan said soothingly. "I'll be there."

After Schultz had moved away, Kinch asked quietly, "Are you sure that's wise, Colonel?"

Giving him a humorless smile, Hogan said, "Probably not. But what choice do I have?"

* * *

Kommandant Klink found the Wehrmacht captain pleasant enough. Just passing through the area and hoped Klink could put him up for the night. A shallow excuse, Klink considered. There was a fine hotel in town. Non-combat officers were often curious about the enemy and would seize an opportunity to see them at a close, but safe, range. And Klink's senior POW officer was a prime attraction. He tried not to think too closely about the zoo connotations. In this case, the 'eagle in the cage' wasn't merely stared at, but had the opportunity to peck back.

Repressing a chuckle at his own analogy, Klink nodded repeatedly at the captain's description of conditions in Berlin, only half-listening. To hear it told, things had never been better. There was little actual news in the captain's news, just a standard recitation of the same optimistic drivel that came over the radio. Did the captain actually believe what he said? Or did he merely choose the safe path and speak aloud only in acceptable ways, as did they all. As did they all...

Still, the captain seemed likeable enough, and it would be a pleasure to watch him deal with Hogan's--what was the American idiom?--'smart aleck' comments. This was a captain, not a general. Not only could the captain not cause Klink uncomfortable repercussions, he wasn't even in the same branch of service. Also, he wouldn't be as tempting a target to Hogan, either, as a general would be.

Yes… Yes. This would likely shape up to be a purely enjoyable evening. No Hogan plots or schemes. No threatening superior officers of his own. Just a peaceful, normal evening with some banter from Hogan to say the things Klink and the captain couldn't say. Good. All good…

"Kommandant?" Hogan peered in, right on time. When, Klink considered in wonder, had he gotten used to the man never knocking before entering, whether it was the office or, as now, Klink's private quarters?

"So, this is what an American air force colonel looks like," the captain said, in German, fixing Hogan with an icy expression. Klink threw him a startled glance. The mild-mannered captain's voice had turned distinctly hostile.

"And this is what a Wehrmacht captain looks like," Hogan answered in English, giving the captain a sharp up and down examination.

Klink gaped. The tension level in the room had soared. The hostility in the air between the two crackled like an electrical charge. Often visiting German officers would begin with hostility toward the American but, with the exception of the SS and Gestapo, Hogan rarely reacted in kind to them.

Fumbling a bit over his words, Klink tried to diffuse the obvious antagonism between the two with formality. "Captain Ritter, our senior POW officer, Colonel Robert Hogan. Hogan, Captain Ritter is just passing through and stopped for a visit to our Stalag."

Klink might as well have not been in the room for all the notice either Ritter or Hogan gave him on the introductions. They had locked into a stare, looking for all the world like a pair of growling guard dogs, each trying to back the other down. What had happened to his pleasant evening, Klink inwardly wailed.

Then Hogan threw out an odd comment, "A captain? Interesting fit on the uniform. If I didn't know better, I think I'd be more likely to take you as a school teacher."

Klink's eyebrows raised, almost causing him to lose his monocle.

The captain chuckled humorlessly. "Indeed. Indeed. I was a school teacher. In Berlin. Until the Americans bombed our school into rubble," he said, glaring even harder at Hogan.

Hogan flinched. His demeanor softened a touch. "I'm sure it was an accidental hit. We don't target schools," he said. After a moment's pause, a hesitation Klink thought strange, Hogan asked, "Was anyone hurt?"

Captain Ritter's tone and stance also softened slightly. "The schoolmaster, my father, was the only one in the building. He was slightly injured, but is recovered. We've moved him further south, to an area safer from the bombing." Klink noticed the question-mark look Hogan fixed on the captain. Why did Hogan care where a visiting officer's schoolmaster father had moved? "To Dresden," Ritter added.

Hogan nodded, relaxing more. "Good. That's good. No military targets. Not likely to get hit."

Part of Klink noticed that Hogan had just divulged some possibly useful military information, but another part of him shoved that into the background as he struggled to decipher what was going on between these two and why. Another thing he noticed, and was surprised it took him as long as it did to realize, was that Ritter had only spoken in German and Hogan had only spoken in English. Yet each had assumed from the first moment the other would understand.

In an offhand sort of way, Captain Ritter commented, "I suppose cities in America are safe from bombing, like Cleveland."

Klink almost sprained his neck, so quickly did he jerk his head around to stare at Hogan. One of the possible hometowns. How did Ritter...? He remembered General Biedenbender mentioning Indianapolis. Biedenbender had immediately disappeared after crossing Hogan's path, presumably turning traitor and bombing a German installation. Careful, Ritter, Klink thought as loudly as he could. Be careful...

But Hogan casually answered, "Yeah, I'm sure Cleveland's okay. My mom's okay, too. Staying with my dad's family in the East. Worried about everyone who's involved in… _this_, of course. Wish I could give her more news, but I'm sure you understand how it is."

Ritter nodded at that, in a way that said to Klink he'd gotten more out of the exchange than Klink had. What...?

As he managed to usher the two to the dinner table, getting drinks into their hands, Klink tried to divert the conversation to mild, inoffensive topics, but was ignored. Somehow the conversation turned back into a full family history of the captain. Ritter didn't quite speak on the topic directly, and Hogan never quite asked any forthright questions. It was as though they were speaking in a code, using bits of unrelated conversation to push out fragments of personal information. The captain's sister was well, Klink determined through the convoluted conversation, and her children. Captain Ritter's daughter was also well, but his son...

The conversation hit an awkward halt.

"Stalingrad?" Hogan echoed it in a whisper. Klink stared at him. All the Russian winter jokes and taunts Hogan incessantly made seemed to have fled him. "Missing in action?" he asked softly.

Ritter nodded. "We hope he was captured and not killed."

Hogan looked down and away, taking a gulp of brandy. Klink hastened to refill his glass, vainly hoping something would tone these two down.

After a moment, Hogan said, low, "Better to hope he was killed."

Bristling again, Ritter demanded, "Why would you say such a thing about your... about my son?"

Hogan stared at Ritter with something on his face halfway between sympathy and contempt. "Have you seen how Russian POWs are treated by _your people_?" he demanded. "How do expect they're gonna treat German prisoners?"

Klink flinched. So did Ritter. Almost babbling, Klink tried to inject a comment about the Geneva Convention and how the Russians didn't adhere to it, so the Germans, naturally, not that that was an excuse...

But he was cut off mid-sentence by Ritter who launched into an impassioned defense of Germany, the Third Reich, and the necessity of this war. Hogan slammed his glass down to the table, rattling the china. Klink reached to steady one of the pieces of delicate crystal as Hogan and Ritter shifted into a full-fledged argument the likes of which Klink hadn't heard since the beer-hall days before Hitler took absolute power.

As he tried to listen yet not listen, hear yet not hear, what the two said, Klink pondered that he knew Hogan had some strong feelings on the subject of Hitler and his Reich, and of the Nazis as a whole. Obviously... he was the enemy, fighting them. It was to be expected. And Klink was somewhat aware Hogan's commitment to fighting Germany in this war went beyond that of the average American soldier called into service. Vague American propaganda posters about fighting the evil Huns hadn't drawn Colonel Hogan into the war. He had chosen his stance long before and now Klink realized he was hearing the reasons why.

Stunned, it took Klink several minutes to realize he was no longer hearing a dual-language conversation. Hogan had shifted entirely into German, and not the foreign-sounding German he usually spoke to visitors. He spoke pure, native-level German such as Klink had heard from him only once before when he was with those two Panzer officers. Another chill went down Klink's spine as the accents sank in. Both Hogan and Ritter sounded distinctly Berlinerisch. Their voices, in German, were even similar.

Gulping the last of the brandy, Klink found another bottle, filling his own glass repeatedly. Hogan and Ritter were too busy arguing to drink. They fought with a practiced familiarity, Klink thought somewhat fuzzily as the alcohol numbed some of his shock.

And now they quoted _Mein Kampf_ at each other, Klink realized. Donnerwetter. He'd always meant to read it. He'd tried. Really, he had, but it was such a dreadful piece of self-indulgent, rambling...

Silence shocked Klink to attention.

Hogan and Ritter both turned to stare at Klink. He really shouldn't have criticized the Führer's writing skills aloud. Blushing, Klink looked away. His inserted comment distracted them from their argument only briefly as they launched into a new topic...

Mein Gott! He had to stop them. The word _Juden_ had been invoked. And Hogan had started a sentence with, "Tell me, Rudy, what happened to..."

"Gentlemen," Klink cut in forcefully. "Captain." He emphasized the under-officer's rank. "The evening grows late and this discussion..." he trailed off, straining to find a diplomatic way to say that it could get Hogan or, more importantly, Klink shot. "It's late," he finished lamely. "Captain, I believe you know the way to the guest quarters," Klink said, letting his tone make it clear it was an order.

"Of course, sir," Captain Ritter said, appearing to regroup. "Thank you for dinner and a most... enjoyable evening." He stood up. With a short nod to Hogan, he said, "Rob."

Hogan nodded without looking up. He stared down at the table with a rigid expression locked on his face. Klink had seen it before. He'd seen it when Hogan had stared down the Gestapo officer who brought him here. And when he'd stared down that SS colonel who liked to toss fake grenades about.

The door closed behind Captain Ritter. Hogan heaved a sigh. Klink merely stared. What exactly had taken place here tonight?

"Hogan..." he started, hesitantly.

Hogan stood abruptly. "Thank you, Kommandant. For the dinner," he said tersely, formally. "I'll have Schultz escort me back to my barracks." And then the door closed behind him, too, leaving Klink sitting alone at the table in wondering shock. Hogan had called Captain Ritter 'Rudy'. The captain's first name was, indeed, 'Rudolf', but Klink could not recall it ever having been mentioned.

* * *

Klink stepped out onto the porch of his quarters. Hogan stood, arms folded across his chest, waiting with overt impatience for Schultz to return from his rounds to escort him back to his barracks. Though Hogan seldom acted like a 'prisoner', there must be a certain level of frustration at the restrictions he had to deal with, Klink considered, even if most of the time it was just at working out ways to circumvent the restrictions.

Still radiating anger, Hogan didn't turn when Klink closed the door and stepped up near him.

"You really hate us," Klink commented quietly.

It took Hogan a moment to react. "Huh?"

Taking a step closer, Klink said, "You hate us. Those who wear this uniform… No, all of us. Germans. I could never quite decide before, but you do. Seeing and hearing you tonight with Captain Ritter. Hearing what you said. Seeing how angry it made you. Yes. You hide it well, but you do hate all of us."

Hogan made a small sound somewhere between derisive snort and sad sigh. Klink saw him bury some of his obvious anger and frustration, before he spoke.

"No, Kommandant," Hogan said dully. "I don't hate all Germans." He glanced around at Klink. "Not even all those in uniform," he added with a slight twitch of a smile. He gave a heavy sigh. "Not even Rudy… Captain Ritter," he quickly amended.

"You know him," Klink said firmly. "You obviously know him. I've seen you with many visitors here, seen you bait them, taunt them… I admit I've often enjoyed it. A guilty pleasure, hearing someone say what no German dare. But you've never gotten angry with anyone like that before. Never said those sorts of things. He and you were fighting like my brother and I used to fight. How is it you know Captain Ritter?"

Hogan looked at him steadily, and Klink saw him weighing, evaluating, calculating. Instead of answering the question, Hogan asked, "Kommandant Klink… why are you a Nazi?"

Klink recoiled. "I'm not," he said. "You know that. I'm not a Party member."

"Not a Party member," Hogan echoed. "But you believe the Party line? Support and advocate the scheiße the Nazis spew? Serve them and their interests? Tell me how that makes you different."

_I can't tell you,_ Klink thought._ I'm not sure I know._ "I… I can…" He stumbled for the words. "I can only say…"

"Never mind, sir," Hogan cut him off. "It was unfair of me to ask. You have your duty to perform." He turned, speaking off into the night. "As do we all." Klink squinted, trying to discern his meaning.

"You can't imagine what it was like," Klink found himself saying. "After the defeat. Hmph. The _last_ defeat." Donnerwetter! When had he realized they were going to lose? Again. Even as he thought it, said it, Klink knew it was the truth. They were going to lose. America's might backing Britain's determination? People like Hogan set against them? As resolutely against them as Hogan was? It was only a question of how long. Another defeat. "You can't understand it, Hogan."

Hogan cocked an eyebrow at him. "I think I have some experience with defeat, sir," he said wryly, waving a hand toward the fence.

Shaking his head, Klink half-smiled. "No, you don't, Hogan." He pulled two cigars from his pocket, handing one to Hogan. He lit his, then held the lighter for Hogan. Klink said, "You may have been shot down and captured, but you have never been defeated. You don't understand it. How it affects a person, a whole people, to see their entire nation defeated."

Blowing out a stream of smoke, Hogan gave Klink a thoughtful examination. "What I don't understand is how otherwise decent people can go along with the sort of evil Hitler and his gang represent." Hogan stared at him, and Klink saw his expression go hard and cold. "The SS, the Gestapo, and all their kind… Yes, Kommandant, I hate them. I've always hated them and what they've done, what they're doing."

"They gave us pride," Klink blurted out, wondering why he'd even spoken at all; why he was defending _Them_. Accepting his own portion of shared guilt? "They gave us back a sense of dignity and respect, in ourselves, our military, and our nation." He sighed and glanced away from Hogan. "At least at first." Turning to study Hogan, he said, "The Party rally of '34, in Nuremberg... I was there. I saw it. Was amongst it. A million people cheering. A people alight with defiant pride. A military that again deserved, and earned, respect. A nation no longer cowering in shame. When Hitler arrived, he was like a god, an eagle, spreading his wings over us, to make us strong again." Klink swallowed, dropping his eyes from Hogan's, then admitted, "Yes. I felt it then, along with all the others." His voice lowered to a whisper not meant for Hogan's ears, though he may have heard the words anyhow, "God help me, but I did."

As Klink glanced up at Hogan again, he noted the American examined him unwaveringly. Resolutely, Klink said, "If you weren't there, you can't imagine how it felt; what it was like."

"I was there," Hogan said very softly.

"What?!" Klink's eyes widened in blank shock.

Hogan looked down and away, back toward the fence. "Nuremberg in '34. I was there. With Rudy. The first big fight we had on the subject. Where you saw triumph and pride spreading, I saw a black shadow of evil swallowing everything in its path, leading Germany down a road to ruin that will make the last war--the last defeat--look like a picnic. _Fear_," Hogan emphasized the word, "isn't _respect_."

"Donnerwetter," Klink whispered. "What...? Why...?" He couldn't form coherent words. "What were you doing there?" he finally managed.

"Just a tourist," Hogan said dismissively, clearly regretting have spoken so openly.

"Hmph," Klink snorted. "A tourist who shows his holiday photographs at the Pentagon?"

Hogan twitched an enigmatic smile at Klink. "Kommandant, could we just pretend this whole evening never happened?"

"I think that's for the best," Klink conceded. "All is forgotten," he affirmed. He'd spoken too boldly at points himself, said things he shouldn't have even thought.

With a sigh, Hogan scanned the compound again. "Where is that Schultz?" He tossed his cigar to the dirt. With a blunt curse in German Klink had never heard from him before, Hogan muttered, "I can dodge the spotlights." He strode down off the porch toward the compound.

They'd fought like brothers, Klink thought again. They'd argued and insulted in a practiced way, each knowing exactly where and how to hit the other. As he became more angry and less guarded, Hogan's accent and phrasing had slipped into a mirror of the captain's own. Then there was the strange initial conversation, like they were passing coded personal information to each other...

Americans were a mongrel breed, Klink thought again, recalling his initial reaction to Hogan's personnel file.

"Hogan!" Klink called after him. Hogan paused, looking back. "Colonel Hogan, what is your mother's maiden name?"

Hogan stared a moment, then turned away again. He hesitated, then called, "'Night, sir" back over his shoulder.

Klink watched his senior POW expertly avoid spotlights and patrols as he crossed the compound to his barracks. He stared outward, smoking and contemplating.

'_Night_... short for 'good night', was that what Hogan had said? Or was he actually answering the question Klink had asked? _Night_, in German _Nacht_. Hmm... no. Klink tossed his cigar aside and turned toward the door of his quarters. Closing the door behind him, he froze, his hand still on the knob. Klink fixed on the chess board on the far side of the room, a game in progress, left unfinished since being interrupted nearly a week ago. Klink's attention locked on a single chess piece. _Night..._ one of those English words where two words sound the same but mean something quite different. Night. _Knight_.

Gott im Himmel, Klink thought, feeling suddenly faint. _Knight... _in German, _Ritter_.

* * *

Without providing details, Kinchloe had warned the others to lay low and not say anything when Colonel Hogan returned that evening. It didn't stop their curious stares, though, when Hogan slammed the barrack's door behind him, heading immediately to his office.

"Kinch," he called a summons as he closed the door behind him.

Slowly, to give Hogan a minute to collect himself, Kinch ignored the overlapping babble of questions from LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk. He knocked briefly on the office door before letting himself in. Hogan sat, elbows on the desk, head propped in his hands.

"Sir?" Kinch announced himself softly. "Problem?"

Without looking up, Hogan said, "Make sure we keep an eye on Klink's outgoing reports for a week or so."

Kinch took a moment to digest that. "Did you, uh… did you say something, sir?"

Hogan peered up at him ruefully. "I said a lot of things. A lot of things I shouldn't have."

"You really think Klink will report any of it?" Kinch asked.

"I dunno…" Hogan shook his head. "I don't know. It depends."

"On?"

"On whether Klink figured out what he was hearing, and what it meant. I got a hunch he did. No, I'm certain he did. But, does he realize what it means? I dunno…" Hogan trailed off.

Kinch shifted to his other foot, wanting details but understanding he couldn't ask for them. "Sir," he said carefully, "Klink may be a fool in a lot of areas, but he's got a real big wish to survive this war and you know he's already been willing to overlook a lot of strange things if it means he stays alive and safe. He doesn't want the Gestapo poking around here any more than we do."

Hogan grinned. "As long as there are no escapes. Yeah, he told me once he'd rather be a live failure. Just as long as he sticks to that."

* * *

Sitting at the chess board, Klink turned the white knight over and over in his hands, staring at it, studying it.

Though he'd tried to distance himself from it, the debate--_argument_--between Hogan and Ritter tonight kept replaying itself in his head. Ritter's points he could have made for himself. The man had quoted the Party prattle right down the line. Any loyal German officer could spout those sentiments in his sleep. It was Hogan's arguments which frightened Klink. It frightened him because he did not disagree. Hogan had used Hitler's own words against Ritter; argued the same points but from a different perspective.

_What I don't understand is how otherwise decent people can go along with the sort of evil Hitler and his gang represent._ Are they evil? Or a necessary evil? Or a necessity to return his nation and his people to their rightful place. At what cost? Another phrase slipped unbidden through Klink's mind: _What does it profit a man if he gains the world but loses his own soul?_

Standing to pace, Klink tried to see himself honestly; tried to see himself as Hogan must see him. No delusions. Klink played the patsy to an American spy. Evers to Chance. There. That was the blunt truth of it. He wasn't willing to face the repercussions to himself of revealing what he suspected of Hogan. But what did he really know? Hogan had the ability to contact and pass information to the Underground. That was really all Klink _knew_, all he could prove. Well, no… he couldn't actually prove even that.

But he also knew Hogan could make people disappear. Blown up. Dead. Discredited. Transferred to Russia. Defected to England…

Hogan could do things. His endless schemes… the strange events…

Klink couldn't change the world. _Face it, Wilhelm, you're not a hero. Leave that to men like Hogan._ He wasn't drunk enough to delude himself into thinking that. He couldn't stop the SS. He couldn't stop Hitler. He couldn't end the war. He couldn't be what Hogan was.

Klink's eyes strayed over to his violin, resting in its case. Once he'd committed an impulsive act that could be... would be... _was_ considered a crime and, once trapped in it, found he couldn't back out. Not that he really wanted to back out. The price of the trap was high. The price to escape it was infinitely higher.

He'd committed that one small sin for the sake of decency, for the sake of his soul, but he wasn't ready to commit outright treason. Klink was Evers, always, only Evers, the man in the middle and that was the way it had to be.

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Advisory: _Moderate German curse word used. Thanks to MaggieA for this very pointed and—in the show's context probably accurate—word Klink uses to describe General Von Heiner. Google Translate will be glad to tell you what it means. _

**

* * *

**

_Episode 77, "The Hostage": Marya shows up with General Freidrich Von Heiner who has placed a rocket fuel depot near the camp. Hogan wants to blow up the depot while Marya only wants to blow up the General._

* * *

The first time Major Hochstetter pointed to a map and listed all the acts of sabotage surrounding Stalag 13, Klink blanched and understood the full extent of the truth. It was measures beyond having contact with the Underground, measures more beyond the schemes he'd witnessed himself here in the camp, yet Klink knew in an instant what Hochstetter said was true. Klink couldn't see Hogan's face, and—thankfully—Hochstetter paid no attention to Klink, but he knew Hogan hadn't so much as twitched at the Gestapo major's accusations. Why would he? He was a prisoner in the toughest POW camp in all of Germany, how could he do such absurd things?

No sane man could believe the accusations. That, Klink, realized, was probably why Hogan wasn't afraid of Hochstetter. Anyone who heard the major would think him mad.

But of course it was true. All of it. It was insane and absurd and no one in his right mind would ever believe POWs locked in a Luftstalag in the midst of the enemy could be secretly operating a sabotage unit. No one would ever believe it, no matter how clear the evidence was right before his eyes. That was why it could work.

Yes… People saw what they expected to see. The Gestapo and SS who came here expected to see downtrodden, defeated soldiers from inferior races and that's what they saw.

Standing at his office window, looking out at the compound, Klink studied Hogan as Hogan studied the rocket fuel depot being built preposterously close to the camp. Klink wasn't worried... much. It wouldn't be there long. He just hoped the whole camp wouldn't go up with the rocket fuel. As he watched Hogan, Klink pondered what it was he had expected to see when Hogan first arrived here nearly a year ago.

He'd expected… well, to be perfectly honest, he'd expected an American version of Colonel Crittendon. Proper military manners, the respect of gentleman aviator to gentleman aviator. A flyer's credo of honor and camaraderie transcending the color of the uniform each wore. Flowing white scarves and a salute to the fallen foe before the victory roll as they flew off into the sunset. Instead he'd ended up with an American cowboy he sometimes liked and sometimes loathed who didn't even seem to know how to do a proper salute. Klink glanced back at the spiked helmet on his desk, then out at the swastikas with their black arms crawling across everything. The Old World was gone, long gone, and what little remained was being smashed and shattered. And it wasn't just the American and British bombs doing it. Men like Hochstetter were doing it.

Hochstetter was a dangerous man. So was Hogan. Klink saw Hogan point to the rocket fuel depot as he said something to one of his men, then Hogan strode off across the compound and out of Klink's sight. Yes, Hogan was a dangerous man. But Hochstetter was the enemy.

With a shake, Klink jerked back from the window. What are you thinking, Wilhelm?! Mein Gott... _Hogan_ was the enemy. Hochstetter was his comrade, his countryman, his colleague fighting side-by-side with Klink for the glorious Third...

With a groan, Klink wondered what had become of his Fatherland when an enemy made a better ally than one of his own countrymen.

It wasn't quite surrender, Klink decided as he picked up his hat and riding crop to leave for the meeting General Von Heiner insisted take place in town. And it wasn't quite collaboration. And it certainly wasn't treason (He was not a traitor. He was _not!_ He was loyal to his nation. Loyal…). It was more, he considered, an intelligent cooperation, one that neither he nor Hogan could acknowledge lest it all explode… just as Von Heiner's rocket fuel soon would.

* * *

"Whatcha thinking about, Colonel?" Kinch asked as he approached Hogan. Kinch had expected to find him studying the rocket fuel depot again, but instead Hogan stood on the opposite side of the camp, near the northern perimeter, staring out toward the horizon. Kinch knew what lay in that direction, give or take three hundred miles. Hamburg was getting pounded for the second time that week.

"Hamburg?" he added, when the colonel didn't react.

Nodding, Hogan said distantly, "Uh huh. It's a nice city. Pretty. _Was_." He glanced over at Kinch. "You ever seen a firestorm?"

Kinch shook his head slowly. "Schultz said his wife and kids got out in time. The factory she worked at took a direct hit. But they're in Heidelberg. Safe."

Almost as though to himself rather than to Kinch, Hogan said, "Yeah. Safe." He scowled. "The fliers aren't. They're getting picked out of the sky right this very minute. Artillery. Flak. Fighters. Shot up. Burned. Crashing. We won't be rescuing any of them. Too far away." He was silent a long moment. Kinch watched him stare northwards. "I was shot down over Hamburg, you know," Hogan said. "Lost four of my crew."

Kinch held his breath. He knew, but didn't want to interrupt, to break the mood, if the colonel wanted, or needed, to talk about it.

Hogan's voice dropped to a low monotone. "Last year, this time, I was in a Gestapo cell." Kinch saw him obviously reach for control. "It looked so hopeless then. We were so far behind. Barely holding them back. I almost believed the Nazis might win. That we wouldn't be able to stop them." He shook himself and looked back up to the horizon. This was the side of their commanding officer he never let the others see, and only rarely let Kinch have a glimpse of.

"They're going to lose," Kinch said quietly. Resolutely.

Hogan nodded. "I know. It's just a matter of time now. And lives."

Kinch just wished he hadn't heard the fatalistic tone in Hogan's voice as he said that.

* * *

"We're setting a trap, Klink. Do you know why?" General Friedrich Von Heiner smarmily intoned. Klink could have hated him on sight, another pompous, preening aristocrat who sneered down on colonels who had been colonels too long and whose families didn't have the money or social prestige to finagle that further promotion. Klink smiled blandly and agreeably. He'd be willing to bet he had made colonel at a far younger age than Von Heiner had. Younger than even Hogan, for that matter. But who paid attention to colonels?

"Of course, sir." Klink agreed, as a matter of long-established policy with anything a general said. He paused. "Why?"

"Because there's been much too much sabotage in this area. Because they've been blowing up everything. Because you have been sitting right in the middle of it, Klink, and doing nothing." Von Heiner said, his voice rising.

Oh, dear… Does Hogan know? Is he prepared for this? "If I could just point out, sir..." Klink said, about to emphasize the no-escape record of Stalag 13, to encourage Von Heiner to see, as all the others did, exactly and only the expected. No prisoner in Germany's toughest prison camp could possibly be responsible for…

"Absolutely not," Von Heiner snapped.

"Yes, sir, absolutely not." Klink agreed.

"Berlin has been forced to send someone with brains into this situation. A clever mind heads this band of saboteurs, Klink. It will take one far more clever to trap him," Von Heiner said. _And you think you're more clever,_ Klink thought with a sudden burst of cheer. His mood shot up to an absolutely giddy altitude as he anticipated the pleasure of seeing this arrogant Schwanzlutscher crash and burn.

"After the trap is baited, we wait... for the fox," Von Heiner added.

"He has no chance, sir. No chance at all," Klink agreed, with excessive enthusiasm. Von Heiner didn't notice. He saw what he wanted to see.

And, of course, the Russian woman knew Hogan. Was there anyone in this war who didn't know Hogan? Or that Hogan knew? Or had read their obscure book, or could quote their service record and all their relationships? Or had--Klink covertly glanced up and down the Russian's length wondering if he dare think it--_ahem_... known intimately?

"You know this Colonel Hogan, Marya?" Von Heiner asked, seeming only mildly surprised. The general was traveling with a Russian woman whose every sultry curve radiated the word 'spy', and he was unaware that she, too, would be connected to Hogan.

"But of course," the Russian woman purred.

"I think I'm jealous." Von Heiner pouted.

"But not in the way I know you, Bobo. Not in the way I know you." The Russian woman slithered against the sulking general.

Klink watched with amusement and fascination. Von Heiner had already been out-foxed and he didn't even know it. This could be fun.

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe felt Hogan's tension even more than his own as the colonel was called to Klink's office, summoned by Von Heiner with Marya, the Russian agent Hogan and LeBeau had met in Paris, slinking by his side. They should bolt for the tunnel and get out. _They_ might. The colonel wouldn't. That one slip with that Gestapo major, Hegel, had cemented Hogan's resolve never to run or surrender again. Even, Kinch reflected glumly, if it was what he really ought to do.

"Now listen, this is for everybody," Hogan said in a this-is-an-order-and-I-mean-it tone. "There's a very good chance that we have been sold out by someone who knows all about our operation here."

"Never," LeBeau insisted. Blind, Kinch wondered. Or right?

"A very good chance," Hogan emphasized. "I want you to listen in to Klink's office. If we've been sold out, don't wait for me." Did he really think they'd obey that order? "Everybody down in the tunnel and out. Everybody. And that's an order."

Kinch saw a hint of the Hogan he rarely let them see as he turned to go. Avoiding their eyes, he dropped just the slightest touch on LeBeau's arm.

"So long."

He really thought this was it, Kinch realized as he heard the finality in Hogan's voice. And yet he was walking straight into it.

A brave man. Or a fool.

* * *

Klink could feel Hogan's tension, too.

"You meet so many women in a place like this," Hogan quipped when General Von Heiner informed him that he already knew the Russian woman, Marya.

"You see, Bobo. I told you. He's a fun person," Marya said. No, she never 'said'. There was no mere 'said' in this woman. There was 'purred' or 'oozed' or 'murmured in a sultry tone', Klink decided, but she never just 'said'.

"I see," Von Heiner said. And his 'said' always carried an undercurrent of 'I know something you don't' smarmy contempt.

Oh, mein Gott… Hogan really was thrown by this, by the general and, especially, the Russian woman. It was all over Hogan's face and in his tense stance. Hogan wasn't in control of this one. It all could tumble out of control. Klink had to do something. _A fun person…_ False laughter burst from Klink. "Always laughing and singing..." he babbled. Von Heiner stood up threateningly. "But thoroughly cowed, sir," Klink changed his stance in a sudden panic. "Thoroughly cowed."

Mercifully ignoring Klink, Von Heiner led Hogan to a map of the area. "Let us play a little game," the general began. "You are in contact with a band of saboteurs operating in this area."

Blanching at the too-recent memory of Major Hochstetter doing the same thing, Klink cut in, "Now, General Von Heiner, I can assure you..."

"Marya has hinted that though you may be in seclusion here, you may not be exactly in retirement," Von Heiner said provocatively.

"He forced it from me, darling," Marya said, also provocatively, but in an entirely different way.

Mein Gott, mein Gott, mein Gott, Klink chanted to himself, wondering if he might faint. Hogan just scowled and stared, his expression locked down tight as he sometimes did with the Gestapo. An obvious Russian agent had suggested exactly what Klink knew was the truth. Why wasn't Hogan saying anything? Why wasn't he scheming and plotting and manipulating? "Now General Von Heiner, I can state categorically..." Klink tried to deny it on Hogan's behalf. He stopped. What was the use? Klink's denial meant nothing.

As Hogan turned to leave, the situation went from disastrous to catastrophic as Von Heiner spotted a microphone under a mirrored shelf mounted on the wall.

"Klink, this belongs to you?" Von Heiner asked, holding up the microphone.

Smiling faintly, Klink couldn't even feign surprise. It was one of the bugs. He'd spotted that one before and tried heartily to ignore it. It wasn't particularly well-hidden. "What is that, sir?" Klink asked, hearing himself how unconvincing he sounded.

"A listening device. Someone is hearing every word said in this office," Von Heiner announced as if this information was news to anyone in the room except him.

"That's impossible," Klink insisted with another hopelessly false laugh. _Hogan! _he wanted to scream.

"You'll have it traced," Von Heiner ordered.

"Have it traced, General. That's a marvelous idea." Klink agreed enthusiastically as he desperately stalled. Why wasn't Hogan saying anything? Why wasn't he averting this crisis? Why wasn't he helping Klink out with his sometimes not-so-subtle cues? Was Hogan stumped too? How could that happen? Then the one and only perfect, always useful, never failed, stalling tactic came to Klink. "Sergeant Schultz!" he called.

"If it leads, where I suspect it will. The waiting game is over," Von Heiner said, crossing to face Hogan threateningly. He turned to the Russian woman. "Such a pity. Such a fun person."

Fun. Yes, Klink thought. Firing squads could be such fun.

* * *

Klink caught Hogan's small sigh of relief as the cut end of the wire was found by Schultz. It echoed the sigh he'd given when the Gestapo officer questioning him about the Hegel incident had given up and left, and when the Gestapo had brought him here.

"How could it end?" Klink couldn't stop himself from blurting out in his own relief. And how could the wire end in an obviously fresh cut? Fortunately the general did not deign himself personally to look at the end too closely.

"Gestapo job, sir." Hogan piped up from behind them.

"Did you say Gestapo?" Klink echoed, stepping near Hogan. _Finally something from you to explain everything away?_

"Remember the time they were checking on your loyalty?" Hogan said with a clear 'play along' look in his eye.

"Which time?" Klink asked faintly. _Help me out keeping the stories straight, Hogan._ "Never mind," Klink hastily added. Just invoking 'Gestapo' sufficed. The Gestapo wouldn't have shared information even with General Von Heiner.

Sustained by Hogan's lie, Klink marched firmly back over to Von Heiner and announced, "It's a Gestapo job, General Von Heiner."

"Perhaps," Von Heiner allowed, clearly unconvinced.

"Am I still under arrest, sir?" Hogan asked. Klink had to admire the hint of respectful patience he applied, shaded with just the right amount of exasperated innocence.

"No. You may go, Hogan. But I am not. Repeat, not. Finished with you yet," Von Heiner said.

"And neither am I, Bobo. Neither am I," Marya oozed. It gave Klink shivers. Thank the Maker that Hogan, and not he, had to deal with that woman. She was more terrifying than Frau Linkmeier.

* * *

Kinchloe had a hunch what was going to happen when they started tunneling beneath the rocket fuel depot.

"Set the timer for twenty hundred hours. It'll be during evening roll call. I want everyone in plain sight when that bomb blows," Hogan said.

"Perfect alibi, Colonel?" Newkirk asked hopefully.

"Hardly," Hogan said grimly, "Von Heiner might decide to shoot all of us on suspicion." He took a breath and added the words Kinch had feared the colonel was thinking. "Whatever happens... if they grab me, and that's very possible, that bomb goes as scheduled. And that's an order. This is one order I want to make sure is carried out." Kinch realized Hogan knew they had no intention of obeying that last order to leave him behind as they made their escape. "If no one can get to the bomb, no one will be tempted," Hogan finished, giving them each a stern, yet solemn look.

As the other stirred uncomfortably, Kinch stared hard at Hogan. "Sounds like you're expecting bad news," he said.

"I am." Hogan said fatalistically.

* * *

Schultz a psychic, indeed!

Klink slammed his hand down on his desk, furious. The rocket fuel depot was gone. General Von Heiner was gone. The Russian woman (please God!) would soon be gone. And it fell to Klink, as ever, to have to deal with the inevitable stacks of paperwork explaining away his part in the mess.

Schultz a psychic, indeed!

Sometimes Hogan showed a streak of pure sadism. Schultz as a psychic was all Hogan gave him to work with to explain away a destroyed fuel depot? He'd get even with Hogan for this. He would. Well, the faithful old standby—no prisoners had escaped—still held true. While those around him may wreak disasters upon the Reich, Colonel Wilhelm Klink's perfect record stayed true.

He couldn't decide if he should laugh. Or weep.

* * *

"Women!" Hogan terminated the unwinnable argument with LeBeau about Marya's dubious virtues. Newkirk, and Carter followed LeBeau out of the colonel's office to continue to harass him in the main room while Kinch stayed behind with Hogan.

In the time he'd known Colonel Hogan, Kinch had seen him pursue every female that came into target range. And, he more than suspected, take down more than any POW in as close to a monastery setting as existed had any right to. A "ladies' man" was the polite description. Kinch's oma had a different term for it. Kinch had to glance down and away to hide his grin at the thought. Why exactly had the Kommandant so abruptly replaced Fräulein Helga?

"And that... that... Russian harridan has the nerve to think I could be interested in her!" Hogan continued his interrupted rant.

"It's possible the kissing confused her," Kinch deadpanned, hastily adding a "sir" when he saw the look Hogan shot at him.

"Well... Marya certainly is an attractive woman. It's just, she's not..." Hogan trailed off. Kinch noted Hogan's slightly abashed reaction; the glance down, the faint flush.

For all the women he pursued, and probably conquered, Kinch had seen only one who caused Colonel Hogan to react this way.

"Tiger?" Kinch asked, not keeping the smile out of his voice.

Hogan flicked him a quick grin that just as quickly faded. "She's really not my type either," he said with a hint of defiance. "I always liked 'em... softer." His hands made the universal curved woman shape in the air in front of him. "Rounder. Less stubborn. More... compliant."

Kinch choked back a laugh, earning another irritated scowl from Colonel Hogan. "If I may say, sir, Tiger's _exactly_ your type. I've watched you, Colonel. The ones you really like are the ones who stand up to you, irritate you and challenge you. The ones who are just as smart as you and just as tough, and who know it. Well, maybe not as tough and, actually scary, as Marya. More like Tiger. And it's more than a little obvious you think that... well, that she might be 'The One'."

With a grimace, Hogan shifted. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. I was careful not to leave anyone 'sitting under the apple tree' waiting for me... And Tiger... I mean... The situation is impossible... Still..." A somewhat dopey grin spread across the colonel's face. "I could see us sitting under that apple tree. A little place in the States. A small town, maybe. In Connecticut. Or Ohio. Maybe on the lake in Wisconsin. Quiet. Peaceful. No war." His lips twitched with amusement. "Going in and out through the front door, instead of through the floor. The basement just being a... basement. Winter nights cuddled up with Tiger. Maybe a family..." He trailed off, lost in his daydream.

"Sir..." Kinch hesitated, then decided it really was best to throw a cold bucket of reality on his commander. It seemed cruel, maybe it was, but letting himself get overly attached to someone, especially a woman, a woman who was a leader in the Underground, could cause the colonel to do things, or take chances that could cost him and them all their lives and the mission. No apple trees for any of them for the duration. So Kinch broke into the daydream. "What is Tiger's name?"

"It's..." Hogan stopped, cocking his head and staring blankly. "Um... It's..." Hogan swore enthusiastically, something he rarely did out loud, then glared at Kinch, who dropped his eyes, feeling like a heel. "Damn you, Kinch. It's just a harmless fantasy." Hogan cleared his throat and straightened, squinting outward toward the still-blazing rocket fuel depot. "And odds are neither Tiger or me is gonna survive this firestorm anyhow."

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

Advisory: _Some moderately strong English and German curse words, __and a tiny bit of absolutely bland French__ used in this chapter._

**Chapter 9**

* * *

_Episode 81, "Hogan, Go Home": Hogan is ordered home, with Colonel Crittendon sent to replace him._

* * *

"Sacré chats!"

Home? The colonel was ordered home? Kinchloe took the news in quietly while the others indulged in a nice little rant about it. He set down his headset and methodically shut down the radio equipment while the shock of the others reverberated through the tunnel.

"You mean back to the States?" Newkirk asked incredulously.

"Yes. He's to return for a hero's welcome and then reassignment to Special Services for a three month bond selling tour," LeBeau continued reading the message Kinch had handed him.

Now, that just didn't sound right to Kinch. Hero's welcome? Sure as heck not for his work here at Stalag 13. That had to stay top, _top_ secret for The Duration if the operation and the rest of them were to survive. As far as the rest of the world knew, Colonel Hogan had just been a POW in the only Luftstalag with no successful escapes, so it wouldn't be a hero's welcome for that. Not that the colonel wasn't a hero in every sense of the word, Kinch considered, toying with the corner of his moustache. For his bombing missions and bomber group command? Also, noteworthy and heroic, but in the scale of things in this war, that was long ago, far away, and, for that matter, most of Hogan's flying had been for the British.

"They must be crazy at 'eadquarters. The Colonel's going to snap his twig when he hears this," Newkirk asserted.

Yeah, Kinch thought. That's true enough. Bond selling tour? Okay, fine. That was important work. It was. But not for someone like Colonel Hogan. Training pilots, maybe. Training spies or saboteurs, definitely. Just the intelligence debriefing of all the details Hogan knew about Germany and its inner workings could last three months. A bond selling tour?

Something wasn't right here.

Someone at Headquarters wanted Hogan out of here. But why?

Kinch thought he understood it; the High Command's reasons. In a way. Maybe. There'd been an awful lot of close calls lately. The worst of them had been aimed right smack dab at Colonel Hogan exclusively. Coming on the heels, as this did, on the report to London letting them know that thanks to the 'hints' of the Russian woman the late General Von Heiner knew about their organization, there came the even more dangerous 'Manhattan Project' situation

Gruppenführer Freitag had found out about their organization independently. No Russian spy with her own agenda had been involved. Fortunately, he hadn't shared his information with either Major Hochstetter or his own aide, Mannheim.

Still, he'd found out. Somehow. And if he could. Someone else could. Hegel had. And Hochstetter was sniffing closer all the time.

Was that what this was about? Was that the reason for the sudden order to pull Colonel Hogan out of here, Kinch wondered as they warily approached the colonel's door. To keep him safe? Or because they thought he was a security risk?

_No one holds out forever,_ Colonel Hogan himself had said once.

_Hogan, I admire the position you're taking with the Gestapo,_ Hogan had told Kinch the Kommandant had said to Hogan when he was questioned about the Manhattan Project. _Naturally they're going to make you talk. And when they do, you don't want to talk to a man like Major Hochstetter, do you? _Hogan thought Klink was just trying to snatch some glory for himself, but Kinch had a hunch the Kommandant might actually have been trying to offer Hogan a way out of what looked like an inevitable, and final, session with the Gestapo.

Was someone in London, or Washington, doing the same thing? But a bond selling tour? No. Something wasn't right.

"…but whoever it is, he's gonna have me as a friend for life!" Hogan let out an uncharacteristic whoop of joy when the office door closed behind them.

The rants changed their tone to one of bitterness. Colonel Hogan was happy to abandon them. Not just happy. Jubilant. It tasted of betrayal. Feeling a twinge of it, himself, Kinch contemplated the colonel's reaction. Ah, heck! He knew. He knew how badly Hogan—all of them—wanted to get out of here and go home. Sure, there was duty and responsibility, but, dang it!, he was only human and this wasn't a 'fly fifty missions and you're out' sort of assignment. This mission had only two possible endings: Death. Or the end of the war. And heaven only knew how long the war would last. The Nazis weren't going to give up easily. It could be years more. If they managed a counteroffensive, or one of their new weapons, or thwarted an invasion of the Continent, it could be decades. How many times could Hogan face a situation like Freitag's and survive unscathed?

If he was unscathed by it, Kinch allowed, remembering what the Hegel incident had done to him.

"If it was any one of us…" Carter pointed out. Yeah, they all relented. We'd be heading home like a shot_._

Firmly, Kinch said, "The Colonel deserves a break. He has all the responsibility… he takes the biggest risks. It's about time he got some recognition from the brass."

It was probably for the best, Kinch tried to believe. Better for the colonel to get out while he still had a chance. And there was something else, something Kinch knew because he handled the radio communications. A fragment of information had come in that had lifted, however briefly, some of the weight off Hogan's shoulders. It had to do—as so many things with the colonel did—with a girl. Tiger was in London.

Maybe, just maybe, they both could survive the firestorm.

* * *

Once the giddy moment of joy/relief/excitement wore off, reality settled in. Something wasn't right about this, not right in a lot of ways. Hogan couldn't sit still. Sleep certainly was not to be had. He paced off the remaining hours of the night in a slow back and forth pattern in his quarters.

He couldn't leave this command. He couldn't leave these men who'd done so much and sacrificed so much. Still, orders were orders. Someone else took over the 504th when he failed to return from his last bombing mission. His men went on. The unit went on. That was the way it was. Decisions had to be made unclouded by personal feelings. Ordered on to a new assignment.

Home…

His mother, fretting alone with more worries than she could share with anyone else. She would be so happy, so relieved.

Family, friends… Freedom.

God. He stretched out the word as a prayer in itself. Freedom. No more barbed wire or machine gun barrels tracking him. No more worry that the next time would be the last time. No more Gestapo.

Just seeing the right flag flying on the flagpoles would be glorious. Hearing English spoken all the time. And real English, not like English like the British spoke. Not having to keep straight which role he was playing. Not playing any role.

He heaved a sigh. And Tiger. She was in London now. She was safe. Out of the line of fire. They could both get out and live. Just _live_. Hogan let a smile play over his lips as he lost himself for a moment in the oft-played fantasy. No more catting around. No more games or ploys with an endless parade of women (not that that wasn't fun, he allowed). Only Tiger, just Tiger, forever. The soft curves of her melting against him. Her sharp defiance as she stood alone facing the enemy shifting into desperate need when they were together. The heat of her body, the firmness of her lips. The way she moved, strong and sleek, like a… well, like a tiger.

He really did have to find out her real name, though.

He and Tiger and a little place near the lake in Wisconsin…

Hogan let the fantasy shatter of its own accord. Imagine Tiger, French Resistance Leader Tiger, living in a place called "New Berlin" with neighbors as likely to say 'ja' as 'yes'. She'd probably restart the war. Okay, scrub Milwaukee off the list. All of Wisconsin, for that matter. Okay… better scrub Cleveland, Cincinnati and Indianapolis off the list too. In fact, pretty much the whole Great Lakes area and the Upper Mid-West.

The bright vision of home faded like a neon sign disappearing in the fog and the night. Damn, Hogan thought dismally at his own analogy. Disappearing in the night and the fog. Right. The mission wasn't over. Not by a long shot. Sinking down on his bunk, he buried his face in his hands. He'd been in the fight for so long. Pretty much since the first time he and Rudy had it out over Nazi's rise to power and what it meant to those who weren't part of the Master Race. That was the fall of '34. Now it was November of '43. Most Americans thought the war was not quite two years old. He'd been in it one way or another closer to ten years. And sometimes he was just plain tired.

Scheiβe.

Shaking his head slowly, Hogan relented to the real truth of the matter. His men were staying; continuing the fight even if under another commander. They hadn't abandoned him, even in the times they should have, and disobeyed orders more than once to do so. Tiger wouldn't leave. Not with the war unfinished. Not with France still occupied. Not for him. Not for anyone. She wouldn't go.

Sorry Mom, he thought, letting that neon sign that spelled 'Home' flicker completely out. Neither could he.

* * *

"I'm going to tell headquarters I've decided to stay here, orders or not," Hogan told them.

Kinch heard the trace of sadness in his voice. "That's a problem, Colonel," he said slowly. "Your replacement's already on his way here."

"My replacement?" Hogan asked. "Who is he?"

Handing Hogan a copy of the radio message, Kinch said, "Got this message awhile ago. It's all the dope on him."

In a low mutter, Hogan read, "R.A.F. Colonel. Trained Commando. Sabotage expert." Kinch saw the reluctant acknowledgment on Hogan's face. "I must say my replacement sounds like a darn good man."

* * *

Ah! Ha, ha, ha, Klink chortled to himself with glee when he received notice of the arriving prisoner. He had vowed he'd get even with Colonel Hogan and now he would. This was perfect. Perfect. Thank you, General Burkhalter for ordering the just-captured RAF officer to be sent directly to Stalag 13. Perfect. Certainly no one at the Dulag Luft wanted to question that officer again (and they were quite emphatic about it) so circumventing standard policy this time worked perfectly.

Perfect. He'd chop Hogan down a notch, enjoy it heartily, then sit back and wait for Hogan to find a way to get rid of Colonel Crittendon again. Heaven knew Klink didn't want that pest in his camp either. But for brief (Brief!) dramatic purposes, it was perfect.

"Look, Klink, I've got better things to do than stand here listening to you cackle," Hogan snapped. Oh, he was in rare form today. Oh, yes, this was going to be fun.

Klink grinned. "Please, Hogan, I don't very often get the chance to chop you down and I'd just like to savor that moment.

"What do you mean, chop me down?" Hogan asked suspiciously.

"It has something to do with a British officer who was captured a few miles from here. They'll be bringing him in shortly," Klink said, stretching out the story to enjoy the impact all the more.

"So?"

"This British officer, Hogan, is a colonel. A colonel, Hogan. Beginning to understand why I'm laughing?" Klink beamed.

Hogan scowled at him. "Yeah… you're a nut! Now I suppose you're going to say he outranks me."

"That's right, Hogan. The moment he comes in this gate you are no longer the senior officer," Klink said, watching intently to savor every bit of reaction.

Where was the reaction? Had he expected a new senior officer to be sent here? Hmm… maybe. Klink hadn't considered that possibility. Still, on one exact item Klink knew he was on absolutely solid ground.

"Because it happens to be Colonel Crittendon," Klink said.

That did it! "Crittendon!" Hogan yelped.

Perfect! Perfect. "That struck a nerve, didn't it? Chop, chop, chop!" Oh, the rare and perfect pleasure of finally—Finally!—having one-up on Hogan.

"Colonel Klink, that man disrupted the morale of this entire camp. He's nuttier than you are. He should be locked up somewhere," Hogan grated.

"That's right. And he will be. Right here," Klink answered smugly. Until _you_ find an excuse to make _me_ transfer him out of here. And hurry up about it, will you?

* * *

If that man clicked his heels and saluted one more time Klink might have to order him shot. No court martial would convict him. Anyone who'd ever met Crittendon would understand it was entirely justifiable. They'd probably applaud.

Damn that Hogan! Why didn't he just come in here himself and take care of the situation? If it was hard to figure out what Hogan wanted him to do sometimes, it was impossible to figure out what Crittendon was after. After an incessant amount of swagger and clumsy prattle, Klink concluded Crittendon really wanted Klink to lock Hogan in the cooler. Was that really part of Hogan's plan?

Fine. Klink had wanted to throw Hogan in the cooler pretty much on a daily basis since he'd met him.

He'd made his decision before and he'd stick by it. Whatever Hogan's scheme or plan was this time, he'd just cooperate the best he could. If that meant locking up Hogan, he'd be happy to play along.

* * *

This wasn't at all what he'd expected.

Klink felt the sour churn in his stomach as Hogan was led from the cooler to be turned over to the custody of the four SS guards sent to take him to Stalag 15.

Hogan had manipulated himself a transfer out of Stalag 13. When it finally became clear that was the intent, Klink had submitted the transfer request to Headquarters immediately, expecting an angry phone call in return from General Burkhalter. None had come. Burkhalter approved the transfer request promptly. He'd even had a special messenger deliver the paperwork, rather than sending it by routine channels.

Hogan really was leaving. The talk of escaping was real, only Hogan decided to manage it without destroying Klink's perfect no-escape record. That meant Crittendon would be in charge. Was Hogan mad?! Vindictive?

Or had he been ordered to leave?

It was too fantastic to contemplate. Could Hogan's cohorts in Germany really manage personnel transfers at this level? Could they operate within the very structure of the Luftwaffe prison system itself to have men like Hogan and Crittendon moved about within Germany where and when they wanted? Blowing up factories and diverting Luftwaffe fighters was child's play next to this. How thoroughly infiltrated were Allied agents inside of Germany?

Then Klink remembered how General Burkhalter had gloated over his assignment of Colonel Hogan here—A German general making American command assignments.

That meant Crittendon would be in charge.

Donnerwetter.

The sour churn gave Klink a sharp stab reminding him of the ulcer, which led to the fringe of a migraine creeping over him.

How could Hogan betray him this way? Now Klink would never know, not for certain, what all the strange events here had been about. He'd never know for sure if he'd been helping, hindering, or truly being a blind manipulated fool all along. He'd never know the answers to the puzzle questions about Colonel Hogan.

And Crittendon would be in charge.

Crittendon would be in charge right up until the moment the Gestapo lined them all up, Klink included, and shot them.

Curse that Hogan.

"Say au revoir, Hogan," Klink snapped, "and get into the truck. The men can write to you at Stalag 15." Or London. Or Ohio. Or wherever.

"I'll say my own goodbyes, if you don't mind." Hogan sounded surly, too. Maybe this wasn't his idea after all. "Newkirk, you and Carter take care of those packages?"

"Everything's all right, sir," Newkirk answered. "We should hear something tonight. Good luck, Colonel."

Well, _that_ was blatant enough, Klink thought. Are you planning to hear an explosion somewhere tonight? Yet the SS noticed nothing odd.

Of course not. They saw what they expected to see. Colonel Hogan was an important prisoner, certainly, to merit four SS men to guard just him, yet he was still merely a prisoner of the 'Master Race'. A defeated foe of an inferior army. As Hogan got in the truck, the outright arrogance of the SS struck Klink again. Four SS. One American. They didn't even bother to handcuff Hogan. Not that even chains would hold him if he was determined to go. Klink knew the only thing that would bind Hogan was his word of honor

As Klink turned away from seeing the gates close behind the truck, he inadvertently caught Colonel Crittendon's eye. The man promptly stiffened ramrod straight, clicked his heels and snapped off a perfect salute.

"Hmph!" Klink snarled, making his iron fist gesture. No court in the world would convict him…

* * *

"Hogan, tell me, when the Underground freed you, why did you come back here?" Klink asked. Were your orders changed? Did London realize what a horrific mistake they'd made? Would Hogan give him even a semblance of a straight answer?

"I've been asking myself that same question. Some invisible force seemed to be pulling me back. I guess… Oh, it sounds silly," Hogan said.

"What?"

Hogan said with exaggerated dismissiveness, "You'll just laugh."

"Please, I already laughed once this week," Klink grumbled. "Hogan, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm back because I missed the old dungeon. You have no idea how I felt as I walked over the hill and saw the sun setting beyond the machine gun turrets. The barbed wire sparkling like spun gold. And the delousing station at twilight," Hogan expounded with ghastly poetry. "Colonel Klink, this is a veritable paradise." Donnerwetter, but that was one of Hogan's worst performances yet.

"Hogan, I don't believe one word of this," Klink said honestly. Not bothering to try to dredge a real explanation out of Hogan, Klink changed subjects. "But I'll agree with you about Crittendon. He cannot be trusted. You give him one inch and he'll take fifty yards. You know, he'd gotten that far when Schultz spotted him."

"Crittendon tried to make a break?" Hogan seemed genuinely surprised.

"He denied it, of course," Klink explained. "Said he was coming in, not going out."

"Where is he now?

"On his way to Stalag 15. He's a menace. He's got to be locked up somewhere," Klink said firmly then abruptly realized he'd fallen into one of Hogan's lines. Hastily, he added, "I mean, somewhere else. There's no room here for troublemakers."

"We can do without them very nicely," Hogan agreed. "Incidentally, what time have you got?"

"It's seven twenty-nine and forty seconds," Klink said, checking his watch.

"Exactly?" Hogan insisted.

"I just set it by my radio."

On cue, a huge explosion rumbled in the distance, shaking the ground.

Klink stared, stunned, toward the glow of flames on the horizon. "Hogan! What is it? What's happening?"

"Your radio's twelve seconds slow," Hogan said. What a snot he could be sometimes.

"What has that got to do with it?" Oh... the 'packages'!

"Who knows?" Hogan said. "Oh, there's one other thing, Colonel…"

"What?"

"Chop, chop, chop."

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

_December 5, 1943_

"Men," Colonel Hogan intoned solemnly as he raised his cup in toast, "Those among you who aren't Americans may not realize what a serious and important date this is that we honor today." Newkirk and LeBeau fixed wide-eyed, serious expressions on him. Kinch's and Olsen's eyes glittered while Carter just looked baffled. But, then, he often did.

"It's not a day that will live in infamy," Hogan continued. "but, instead, ten years ago this day filled the hearts of our people with untold joy…" Olsen couldn't contain his snort of laughter any longer. Kinch's grin spread wide. Carter still looked baffled. Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged a puzzled glance. "Gentlemen," Hogan raised his cup higher, "to the Repeal of Prohibition."

He gulped a slug of the moonshine in his coffee cup, followed in short order by Kinch and Olsen. Newkirk and LeBeau exchanged another puzzled glance that crumpled into laughter as they, too, downed a slug. Carter choked and coughed on a bare sip of his.

"And to the boys in Barracks Sixteen," Hogan added, taking another gulp.

"And their still," Kinch added. Another gulp.

"And to farmer Braun and his willingness to be paid a mere three times the market price for his rye," Olsen said. And another.

"Is that where you stay, when you're out of here?" Carter asked. Hogan noticed he set his nearly-full cup down. "With a farmer? 'Cause that would be keen."

Ah, homesickness, Hogan thought, the familiar twinge of it hitting him too. He could have been there now. Home. He swallowed down the last of the whiskey and refilled his cup. The boys in Barracks Sixteen had cooked off a good batch this time. Double-distilled and smooth. Well, smooth in a throat-burning, nerve-numbing, brain-deadening sort of way.

"Nah." Olsen's words already started to slur. "They make you work on a farm. I don't like work. There's this bar… pub… Uh, what's the word in German? I've forgotten." He blinked rapidly with a bewildered expression flooding over his face. "My God, I've forgotten German." Olsen quickly gulped a fortifying slug of the 'shine. 'Cause that'll help, Hogan thought, chuckling. Letting off a stream of extremely fluent German cursing, apparently without noticing it was in German, Olsen said sorrowfully, "I'm sure it'll come back to me. Anyhow, there's this bar, and there's girls. And—" he jabbed his finger around the table to emphasize the point, "—a real shortage of men."

"Mmm… girls," Newkirk moaned. "Women. Dames. Broads. Birds." He sighed.

"Don't the local police or Gestapo ever bother you?" Carter asked.

Olsen shook his head, then clutched it as though it might come loose. "Nah," he said. "I mean, it's not like I'm doin' anything but enjoying the girls and the booze, so they never pay any attention to me at all."

Later, Hogan would wish he'd paid more attention to Newkirk's reaction to Olsen's story. Instead, he launched into a story of his own, about a woman, of course. And one story led to another....

"…you were captured _by a girl?!_" Several of his men burst out in unison, laughing, as Hogan reached the edelweiss, moonlight, and pledging their undying love portion of the story.

"Did I not emphasize the fully cocked, double-barreled, big verdammte shotgun part?" Hogan slurred intently.

The door opening let in a burst of cold air, interrupting the story.

"Schultz, don't you ever knock?" Hogan snapped at the guard.

Holding his hands over the stove, Schultz answered mildly, "No. Do you?"

Hogan chuckled. "What's up, Schultz?"

"The Kommandant invites you to his quarters for a game of chess," Schultz announced formally. "I am sent to escort you."

With a laugh, Hogan said, "The phrase 'sent to escort' kinda changes the tone of 'invites'." He stood, wavering a moment as he reached that whole six-foot altitude. "Whoa." Hogan held the table until the swaying stopped.

Low, Kinch said warningly, "Colonel, you're a bit sloshed. Maybe you ought to skip this one."

"Nonsense," Hogan said, grabbing up a half-filled bottle of the moonshine as he turned to go. "I can let Klink beat me at chess drunk or sober."

* * *

"Colonel Hogan, is that liquor?" Klink demanded when he saw the bottle and his senior POW's somewhat unstable demeanor. "You know that's forbidden."

"Ssshhh," Hogan said, holding his finger to his lips. "Don't tell anyone."

With an exasperated sigh, Klink started, "Hogan…"

"We're celebrating an important national holiday, Kommandant," Hogan said, filling a brandy snifter with the pale amber liquor and holding it out. Klink took it and sniffed cautiously. Mein Gott! The alcohol fumes alone could knock a man out. Carefully, he took a sip.

"This is good," Klink admitted incredulously. "But, Hogan, making alcohol…" He paused. He really didn't want to fuss with camp rules tonight. "Well, if it's an important American holiday…" He paused again, considering the date. "Oh," he said with sympathy in his tone, "The attack on Pearl Harbor." Raising the glass of liquor in Hogan's direction, he offered a silent toast.

But Hogan grinned. "That's the seventh, Kommandant. Today's the fifth. Repeal of Prohibition day. Ten years." Hogan raised the glass he'd filled for himself toward Klink with a grin. "To Noble Experiments and their merciful end."

Klink snorted. "Yes. I've heard of your Prohibition. Proof positive that Americans are…"

"Crazy?" Hogan filled in helpfully.

"Yes," Klink agreed. Interesting how Americans didn't mind being collectively called crazy. What a strange, undisciplined, and wild place their land must be.

Hogan sat down at the chess board and immediately moved out the white knight piece with a grand flourish. Trying not to become immediately enmeshed in the game, Klink made a quick, but very safe and standard, answering move.

"They gathered by the thousands in the streets in front of the breweries in Milwaukee and St. Louis that day. A big party in the streets," Hogan commented as he stared thoughtfully at the chess board. It was a novelty to have Hogan be a bit slow on the chess moves, Klink considered. This could be a very enlightening game. And he seemed talkative. Not that talkative was unusual. Not unusual at all. But maybe tonight he'd actually say something.

Hogan moved a piece. It was—to Klink—a seemingly random move of a random piece. Drunk or sober, however, he couldn't imagine Hogan making any random moves. This could be a very interesting game, indeed.

"Were you there," Klink asked casually as he studied the board, "in Milwaukee or St. Louis that day?"

"Hard to remember," Hogan said evasively. Or perhaps honestly, Klink considered as he recalled the occasion for the celebration. "Maybe both."

"Celebrating crowds in front of the breweries in Milwaukee and St. Louis," Klink commented slowly, covertly watching for Hogan's reaction. "_German_ breweries."

Glancing up from the board, Hogan countered, "_American_ breweries."

"_German_-American breweries," Klink countered back firmly.

Hogan's eyes took on a mischievous twinkle as he peered at Klink. "Yup," he agreed with a cheerful tone in his voice. "German-American breweries." He grinned at Klink. "We got the beer-makers and atomic scientists and you got stuck with the Hochstetters and Burkhalters." He raised his glass in a mocking toast. "Congratulations on that victory, sir."

Klink decided to let that round go to Hogan as he moved another chess piece. "You couldn't possible have been in both Milwaukee and St. Louis in the same day," he said. "They're too far apart."

Propping his chin in one hand, Hogan stared at the board. "Not really. 'Bout four hundred miles. You see, I had this airplane I'd souped up. An old biplane I rebuilt. And I recall there was this girl in Chicago, right on the way. Get her up to about six thousand feet and she had the most interesting way of…"

Klink waved his hand to stop Hogan. He wasn't sure if 'she' meant the girl or the plane. "Spare me the details," he said, but with a faint smile. "What kind of biplane? A Fokker ? You said once you'd flown one."

Hogan shook his head. "No. A Nieuport. One of the planes the Americans flew in the last war." He looked up at Klink and grinned. "When I was a kid I wanted to be Eddie Rickenbacker."

"Ah, the American Ace." Unable to suppress a chuckle, Klink admitted, "I wanted to be Baron von Richthofen. Unfortunately, I got the chance to try." He gave a small shudder.

"You ever meet Richthofen?" Hogan asked, moving a chess piece. "The great Red Baron?"

"Mmm…" Klink studied Hogan's latest move. "Once. Arrogant Prussian aristocrat with a mean streak in him."

"Doesn't exactly make him stand out from the rest of your officer corps," Hogan muttered.

Klink scowled but let the insult slide past. Instead he said, "Your 'Rickenbacker'… I've always wondered about that name." Klink looked up questioningly.

With a chuckle, Hogan said, "Ah, you're on a theme tonight, huh? Yes, Kommandant. It's a German name. He changed the spelling when the last war started. Before that it was 'Reichenbacher'."

"He was from Ohio, wasn't he?" Klink asked casually, returning to his study of the board though he watched for Hogan's reaction. "Like you?"

There was a long pause from Hogan. "Working on another report for Berlin, sir?" he eventually asked.

"Hardly," Klink said with a snort. "Just curious. The Gestapo thinks you're from Cleveland, Ohio. General Biedenbender thought you were from Indianapolis, Indiana. That radio propaganda woman, Axis Annie, thought you were from Bridgeport, Connecticut. And you've mentioned Milwaukee, Wisconsin on more than one occasion."

"You left out Cincinnati," Hogan murmured.

"Ah, yes," Klink said, moving a chess piece forward. "The city the residents call 'Zinzinnati'. Hogan didn't seem to notice he'd made his move. "I understand the telephone operators there were all bilingual. German and English."

"Uh huh," Hogan said, still staring at Klink. "Until you people started the last war and gave everything German a bad name… again."

"How'd you learn to speak German so well?" Klink asked abruptly.

"Took it in high school," Hogan said tersely.

"Not in Indiana," Klink said. "They banned the teaching of German in 1919. So did many other places in America. About the time you'd have been _starting_ high school. So, how did you learn to speak German?"

About to take a gulp of the American moonshine, Hogan hesitated, then apparently thought better of it. He set the glass back down, untouched. With a forced grin, he quipped, "Eavesdropping on party-line phone calls in 'Zinzinnati'. Trying to pick up barmaids in Milwaukee." Hogan shook his head slowly. "Kommandant Klink, I am about five seconds away from starting to recite my name, rank, and serial number. What's up? Is Hochstetter leaning on you to get information from me?"

"I wouldn't tell that man anything," Klink grated. Then he met Hogan's eyes steadily. Hogan looked suspicious, worried, and puzzled behind the mildly innocent façade he wore with obvious effort. "Hogan, you have my word as an officer and a gentleman, I would not pass on to the Gestapo anything you chose to tell me." It was a test moment, Klink knew. On purpose. He'd accepted Hogan's word of honor on numerous occasions. Would the reverse hold true?

Hogan broke the stare, obviously considering what Klink had just said. Reaching to take another drink, he stopped as the glass touched his lips, then set it back down again. "I… appreciate that, Kommandant," Hogan finally said slowly. It was not quite a committed response. Not quite acceptance of Klink's word.

"You know I reported nothing about that Captain Ritter's rather odd visit with you here," Klink insisted.

"Now how would I know that?" Hogan protested. Klink just gave him a 'how dumb do you think I am?' look, then just as quickly tried to erase it from his face. He didn't really want to know how dumb Hogan thought he was.

"The things you said that night should have had you in Berlin for a long, long time trying to explain them," Klink said. Though he hid it well, Klink could see how the suggestion truly scared Hogan.

"Yeah, all right," Hogan relented. "So you didn't put any of that in your official reports. I appreciate that. Still…"

"Where are you really from, Hogan?" Klink pressed. "Where were you born?"

Clearing his throat, Hogan said slowly, "I don't see what difference it makes."

Klink looked up, meeting his eyes. "Exactly. What difference does it make? I understand your reluctance to provide any sort of 'straight answers' to the enemy, but why is this such an obscure point?"

Hogan took a long time to say anything. "What's up with you tonight, Kommandant?"

"I told you," Klink said, trying to sound as frank and open as he could. "I'm just curious." And hoping to somehow bridge this gap between us, he added silently. Trying to force it. It had occurred to him that Hogan probably didn't want him for an ally, even if the offer was made.

Gesturing with his head as he refocused with an effort on the chess board, Klink said, "Go over to that cabinet by the door."

Curious and suspicious, Hogan slowly complied. He picked up one of the books stacked haphazardly there. Klink saw his eyes widen as he saw the title. In rapid succession, Hogan picked up and examined each of the other books, flipping them open to the bookmarked pages to see the contents. Hogan shot a shaken glance at Klink.

"You may take the English language books for the prisoners' library," Klink said coolly. "Except," he added, "the one about American baseball. I haven't finished with that one yet."

* * *

Hogan sobered up in an instant.

Klink had a stack of books about the United States. More specifically, about the places he supposed Hogan might be from. There were others—books about the migration of Germans to America, the settlements, the most heavily German-American cities (Milwaukee, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, along with Indianapolis, and Cleveland, Hogan noted). When had it gotten so warm in here? Hogan swiped a hand across his forehead and continued looking through the books. Klink was trying to put together puzzle pieces. Dangerous puzzle pieces. Good God…

There was another stack of German books on the same subjects; their perspective on the distant land so many of their countrymen had left Germany for. And another, on the German-American Bund. Those bastards… American Nazis.

Then, curiously, a book on baseball. A history of World Series games. Hogan gave a faint chuckle as he flipped it open to the bookmarked page. _Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play,_ he read. In fact, it was underlined. So Klink hadn't forgotten that.

Yikes! Klink hadn't forgotten that.

Major Kronman… Hansie Kronman, Klink's erstwhile friend shot by the Gestapo for his part in a plot to assassinate Hitler. Klink had seen an awful lot while looking the other way on that one—Hogan able to arrange to have a hotel safe blown open to recover the list with Klink's name on it from Kronman's safe deposit box? _Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play,_ he'd said to Klink when his men tossed them the contents of that safe deposit box.

"Interesting game, your American baseball," Klink commented in an overly mild tone. "Tinker to Evers to Chance," Klink said. He flicked another glance at Hogan then returned to his study of the chessboard. "A 'double-play'. Without Evers, Chance doesn't get to make his play."

Hogan stared at Klink a long time while Klink studiously stared at the chess board. _You're only Evers, I'm Chance,_ Hogan had said to Klink.

"You've got two choices of moves, Klink," Hogan said harshly. "One mates me in five moves. One mates me in seven. Just pick one so we can end this game."

"Yes," Klink said calmly, not looking up. "I saw those. Very clever planning. Very intricate setup. One might say 'over elaborate planning' of them, even." He glanced very briefly at Hogan then reached out and moved an entirely unexpected piece. Hogan stared as Klink knocked Hogan's last remaining knight over with his piece.

"Checkmate," Klink announced.

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Episode 82, "Sticky Wicket Newkirk": Newkirk goes on an unauthorized 'date' into town, is caught and brings the Gestapo down on Stalag 13, almost revealing their entire operation._

**

* * *

**

"...and I said, 'You're only Evers, I'm Chance'," Hogan told Sergeant Kinchloe. The colonel sat folded up on the bottom bunk in his office. To anyone else he may have appeared perfectly at ease, but Kinch could see the underlying tension in him. "Klink, obviously, has been working on that. And apparently a whole helluva lot of other things. Cripes." Hogan wiped a hand across his forehead and for a moment let it all show through. Then he contained it again as he looked up at Kinch. "What do you think? He couldn't possibly have figured out what's going on here, could he? I mean, Klink's petrified of the Gestapo and the High Command... He'd turn us in in a flash if he knew what we've been up to. Wouldn't he?"

Hogan didn't sound at all certain about it. Kinch studied the floor for a moment as he worked it all through, and considered everything else he'd been pondering.

"Sir," Kinch said slowly, wondering how to best approach the idea, "You know Klink better than any of us. How loyal is he?"

Rolling his eyes, Hogan said, "Well, he's not a Nazi." He shrugged. "But not many Luftwaffe officers are in the Party. Göring, himself, discourages it. But I don't doubt Klink would join in a second, though, if it would save his life."

"Yeah," Kinch agreed, but then allowed, "But how many times have you done that 'Heil Hitler' salute yourself, just because you needed to for the mission?"

"True enough," Hogan said. "I know he's never made it through 'Mein Kampf'. The first five pages of his copy are almost worn out and the rest of the book has obviously never been touched." Hogan gave a short sigh, but seemed to be pondering this aspect of the Kommandant. "We have never really talked politics or ideology. Other—" Hogan tilted a 'you know' look at Kinch "—than when Rudy was here and I said some things in front of Klink I shouldn't have."

"And he never reported it," Kinch said. "From what you told me, Klink said some things he shouldn't have either. And he's never reported a lot of things he's seen and knows. Heck, things he just has to know. Colonel Hogan, from what you said to me it sounds like Klink knows—or has a darned good idea—what's going on here, with you, and was offering to be a willing ally."

Hogan shuddered. "Maybe I'm still drunk. You're not seriously suggesting..."

"Yes, I am, sir," Kinch cut in. "Think about what he said. And everything else he's said here and there. The times he said outright he didn't believe your cover story, yet didn't report it. The time you said he asked you flat out if you were a spy, but didn't push it. And then think about something else..." Kinch took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. "_Without Evers, Chance doesn't get to make his play,_ the Kommandant said. Dang it, sir! That first came up when his old friend, Major Kronman..."

"Hansie Kronman," Hogan inserted, nodding.

"...was here," Kinch went on. "Kronman was part of a conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. We checked. London confirmed it. Kronman was legit. And London thought Kronman, his group, and his plan were worth backing. Give him our full support, they said."

"Yeah," Hogan said thoughtfully, focusing closely on Kinch. "Go on."

"Kronman came here to recruit officers he thought would join a conspiracy against Hitler. People he thought most likely to turn against Hitler and the Nazis. Who not only would turn, but were worth having in such a conspiracy." Kinch leaned forward to emphasize his point. "Colonel Hogan... who was the top name on his list?"

A faint breath escaped Hogan as he stared at Kinch. His eyes narrowed as he considered it.

"Klink," Hogan whispered.

"Klink," Kinch said firmly.

As he closed the office door behind him a short time later, leaving Colonel Hogan to deal with a whole new burden of possibilities, another thought nagged at Kinchloe. _Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play. _If Hogan was Chance, and Klink was Evers...

Who was Tinker?

Kinch scanned around the barracks at the bunks. And where the heck was Newkirk?

* * *

"Colonel. No chance at all Klink'd change his mind, is there?" Newkirk asked sadly while Kinch helped him pack his duffle bag.

"Maybe," Hogan said, "but I wouldn't count on it."

Kinch didn't look up. He couldn't meet the Colonel's eyes. Hogan hadn't even really tried to stop the transfer, now had he? It was one of those impersonal command decisions, Kinch realized, and realized as well that—if he took his own bruised feelings out of the matter—it was the same decision he'd make too. Newkirk had made a horrible mistake, violated orders, endangered them all, and Hogan wanted him out.

Yet somehow Kinch had the feeling it was Colonel Hogan making the terrible mistake when he let those personal feelings come back into play and handed Newkirk the gun, telling him to use it to escape.

* * *

"Anything wrong, sir?" Hogan asked, popping through the office door, as ever, without knocking.

Hochstetter. Gestapo. Trouble. Hogan. "Hogan, get out of here," Klink rapped out.

"I want that man in here!" Hochstetter shrieked.

"My feelings exactly, Major Hochstetter," Klink changed directions instantly. Hochstetter was another one who never just 'said'. It was shrieked or shouted or snarled. Or if he did just 'say' it always included a tone of menace and threat.

Hogan popped back in. Without even a glance at Klink, Hogan stopped by Hochsetter and fixed him with an innocuous gaze.

Hochstetter turned to him, giving him a chillingly measuring look. "Colonel Hogan, we have crossed swords before, and I have had my suspicions about you." He waved his black gloves in Hogan's face. "But now my feeling is much stronger."

"Glad you finally cleared me, sir," Hogan said pleasantly. How could he do that, Klink wondered? How could he be so pleasant to that nasty little thug? How did he avoid fixing Hochstetter with the same venomous hatred he aimed at other Gestapo men? Did he not see Hochstetter as a threat? Others had come here with accusations about Hogan and his 'activities' and had ended up dead, disgraced, or disappeared. Why not Hochstetter?

A Gestapo _major_ was one _Colonel_ Klink could hold at bay. When backed by the authority of the Luftwaffe, at least. Hogan knew that. Unlike someone like Gruppenführer Freitag who could order Hogan taken from here at will, Hochstetter was restrained by Klink's authority. _Evers to Chance…_ Hochstetter needed evidence and proof before Burkhalter, or even Göring, would authorize turning an Allied air force officer over to the Gestapo. The Allies had more German airmen as POWs than Germany did of the Allies. As long as Hochstetter's impossible, ridiculous accusations about Hogan remained ridiculous and impossible, he couldn't touch Hogan.

There was one big problem with that, Klink realized, wondering if Hogan realized it too: Hochstetter was right.

"Not exactly," Hochstetter said (gloating menace). "Eighteen men have escaped from Stalag 6. Eight of them, I recaptured."

"Excellent work, Major Hochstetter," Klink put in brightly, trying to emulate Hogan's agreeable cheerfulness to the Gestapo major. "But may I point out to you, here at Stalag 13 we have no such problem." In unison, Hogan and Hochstetter fixed him with a 'you imbecile' look. "Never so much as an escape. Never so much, as... as... as..." Newkirk. "Until today. But that was an official transfer." Klink wilted. Hochstetter scared him. Hogan scared him. Hochstetter and Hogan in unison positively terrified him into babbling incoherency.

"Of the eight men I captured, one talked," Hochstetter went on to Hogan. "He claimed they were all headed for Stalag 13. Would you have any idea why?"

"Bad sense of direction?" Hogan offered.

"I do not think so," Hochstetter said (dryly threatening).

"Major Hochstetter," Klink had to ask, though he instantly wished he hadn't, "why would escaped prisoners be headed to another prison camp?"

"That is exactly what I intend to find out," Hochstetter grated rapidly. Hogan merely looked on with his best blandly innocent expression.

"I shall surround this camp with a ring of steel. Anyone trying to get out will be caught. Anyone trying to get _in_ will be caught," Hochsettter snarled. _Colonel Crittendon said he was coming in, not going out…_

"Major Hochstetter, rest assured, you have my complete cooperation," Klink said expansively, sweeping his arm over the desk.

"I do not want your cooperation," Hochstetter snapped. "All I want from you is to stop giving guns to prisoners." Glancing again at Hogan, he growled, "I will deal with all of you, later."

"Major Hochstetter, may I point out my relations with the Gestapo—"

"Bah!"

The door slammed.

"—have always been most cordial... Cordial," Klink finished faintly to the closed door. Mein Gott. What was happening now?

* * *

As they frantically hid everything in Barracks Two that could get them shot (or worse) by the Gestapo, Kinch had to admire Hogan's quick, cool thinking. Hochstetter had them dead to rights this time. Could they really convince him it was all a bizarre mistake?

"You know, sir" Kinch murmured low to Hogan, "it all depends on Klink."

Giving him a long, serious sideways look, Hogan murmured back, "I know."

"Carter's not gonna have time for a good makeup job. If Klink recognizes him…" Kinch trailed off. "If he's not really on our side, we're sunk."

Hogan fixed Kinch with a dark look. "He doesn't have to be on our side," Hogan said and Kinch could hear the tinge of apprehension in his voice. "Klink just has to remember to be on _Klink's_ side."

* * *

"Major Hochstetter, may I assure you, that everything this woman has reported is impossible. Completely impossible," Klink said firmly, using all of his dramatically confident gestures.

"Are you calling a Gestapo informant a liar?"

"Why would I do a thing like that?" Klink felt the blood drain from his head. No escapes from Stalag 13… Never an escape… How many escapes in a 'never'? The odd roll call counts. As likely to be too many as too few. The inability of Hogan and his men to escape no matter how many times they were outside the fence. In civilian clothes. In German uniforms. And with Hogan able to pass as a native at will? The way Hogan and his men seemed able to come and go… It wasn't just bribed guards. Hogan's taunting about their Escape Committee and tunnel… Yet Klink and his men had never found a tunnel other than those Hogan purposely gave to him.

As an explosion rocked the camp. Klink was glad as it gave him an excuse to dive under his desk and hide. He wished he could stay under there forever.

"What was that?" Hochstetter asked.

"The airborne attack. It has begun," Klink blurted frantically. There was no airborne attack, he knew. 'Airborne attack' screamed of one of Hogan's diversionary ploys worked on Hochstetter's informant. It had that over-elaborate touch.

Hochstetter looked out at the compound. "It is nothing."

Perfect answer, Klink thought, trying to pull himself back together. It really wasn't the tunnel entrance being blown up. It was just a coincidental explosion. Because coincidental explosions always happened in POW camps that were about to be searched for tunnels by the Gestapo. How did Hogan stand this? How could he be so calm and collected in these situations?

* * *

And there he was, utterly calm and collected, as Hochstetter sauntered arrogantly into the barracks with an evil smirk on his face with the female informant, trailed by Klink.

"Uh, huh," Hochstetter said, tugging at his gloves in a way only a Gestapo officer could make appear menacing. "The end of the trail, Colonel Hogan."

"How's that again, Major?" Hogan asked in serene innocence.

"We've come for a look at your downstairs apartment," Hochstetter said triumphantly. "You will show us the way?"

"You've been listening to rumors again," Hogan said. Klink forgot to breathe.

"Something a little more substantial," Hochstetter said. He turned toward the woman. "Open the secret passage, my dear."

"Of course," she said. "Right this way."

Hogan's calmness bolstered Klink's confidence. He steadied himself down with a will. Hogan had the situation under control.

As the woman probed along a bunk, Hochstetter said, "Colonel Hogan. That you were able to operate for so long is a tribute to the stupidity of your beloved Kommandant." Klink nodded along until the words sunk in. His expression faded. He turned to face Hochstetter's terrifying glare. "Or is it complicity, Klink?" Hochstetter said to Klink.

"No, indeed, Major," Klink said weakly. "Stupidity." Until ten minutes ago he thought it was complicity. Now he wasn't so sure. The scope and the scale of it all was still sinking in. Right under his nose… True, he'd tried to not look, not see, but he'd been not seeing more than he ever dreamed.

"That is entirely correct, Herr Major," Schultz inserted helpfully. Good heavens! Klink stared at him. Schultz knew about it all. He even knew where the tunnel entrance was. Complicity? Or stupidity? Klink wondered. Bribed, blackmailed, or collaborating?

As they started to apply the 'Gestapo touch' with axes to the floorboards, Klink took comfort in Hogan and his men casually sitting down and shuffling a deck of cards. It may be all an act, but it was a good one.

Schultz's "Achtung!" shifted Klink's attention from the hole in the floor to the new entrant in this burgeoning disaster entering through the door. Luftwaffe. A general. Good. Perhaps help to rein in Hochstetter.

Then the general addressed Hochstetter, stopping right beside Klink. Donnerwetter! Klink's jaw dropped. He peered at the 'general'.

"It is your business to know me," the 'general' said to Hochstetter.

Carter? Carter?!

Sergeant Carter dressed as a Luftwaffe general. Was Hogan completely mad? Or insanely desperate?

"I am Luftwaffe General Von Siedelberg," Carter said. Klink couldn't stop staring in open-mouthed shock. "Ask Klink. He knows me."

His head shook back and forth of its own accord before enough blood reached his brain again for coherent thought. Nodding rapidly, Klink chanted, "Certainly, I know you, General Von Siedelberg." He slapped on a smiled and saluted. Twice. He snapped a quick up/down glance at Carter's uniform. Carter still had on his worn American work boots on.

Wilting into a horrified cringe, Klink listened, aghast, to Carter's dreadful German accent as he said, "I am in charge of security of all Luftwaffe prison of war camps." Klink leaned closer, peering at Carter. "I've been looking for you, Hochstetter. What are you doing here besides inspecting bunks?" Carter gave a high-pitched whiny laugh. Well, at least that sounded like some of the generals Klink knew.

Klink gave the briefest of sideways glances toward Hochstetter. He didn't dare meet the Gestapo major's eyes.

"I have uncovered a giant plot in one of your camps, General," Hochstetter said, undeterred by the Carter/General. "Ten of the escapees from Stalag 6, the other eight of whom I have captured, are down below us in a tunnel. The prisoners here equip them with money, papers and clothing, and send them out of the country."

"Is that correct, Klink?" Carter asked.

Turning from his miserable, hopeless stare at Hochstetter, Klink nervously said, "Well, I..." He turned to not quite look at Carter. With a nervous smile he said, "I've been watchfully waiting, sir."

"Of course," Carter said, then returned to Hochstetter. "Show us your tunnel."

Nothing but dirt...

...and the final piece of the puzzle.

* * *

"It was me accent that got me," Newkirk admitted ruefully. "That bird tagged me as English straight away, even thought I was speakin' me best German."

A quiet evening around the barracks table, celebrating Newkirk's release from the cooler with LeBeau's best thirty-day-old wine, and not incidentally having thirty days for their fury at Newkirk to diminish, helped ease the anger at his having almost betrayed their organization to the Gestapo. Kinch sipped quietly while Carter and LeBeau probed Newkirk for details of his misadventure. Colonel Hogan had retired to his office after one distracted glass. Kinch didn't know exactly what was on his mind or what he was planning, but as he often did, he'd entrenched himself in his office with maps and intelligence briefings.

"That's why Colonel Hogan keeps at you, all of you, about getting the accent right," Kinch put in solemnly, knowing the colonel would want the lesson emphasized. "It's not just being able to speak the words, it's being able to speak it so you sound so perfectly like a native German that none of the Krauts ever for a moment of think, 'Hey, he doesn't sound quite right'."

Carter seemed to be chewing at that hard. "But Newkirk sounds perfect to me," he said defensively.

"That's because your German is terrible," LeBeau muttered, then turned to Kinch, "But I agree. Mon ami Pierre has managed several times to speak German to the Boche without any of them thinking he sounded wrong."

"Why, heck, he does a perfect Hitler," Carter inserted.

Newkirk raised his eyebrows questioningly to Kinch, as did they all, waiting to hear the explanation.

Shaking his head, Kinch said, "Yeah, Peter does a great 'Hitler'. Yours isn't half bad either, Andrew. But that's mimicry. Set pieces he's reading that we wrote using parts of Hitler's speeches that he's listened to and is imitating."

"I do great voice impressions," Newkirk said. "Part of me act in London…"

Kinch waved his hand to cut short the oft-told story. "And other times have been just a few bits and pieces shouted over a tank engine, or during a gun fight to someone too scared to notice if his accent was a bit off. This time he was talking to a native, having a conversation in a quiet social setting, trying to pass himself off as a German and his accent just couldn't cut it.

"That's why Colonel Hogan handles all the face-to-face encounters like that with the Krauts himself," Kinch concluded.

"Yeah," Carter said thoughtfully, "we've seen him chat with the Krauts umpteen times without them ever suspecting he was an American. More times that we haven't seen."

Newkirk asked, "So how did Colonel 'ogan learn German so good? And, as you say, with an accent so good the Krauts can't tell it from their own."

LeBeau scowled. "En effet… How did he? The colonel is just a pilot in your army, no?"

Kinch had to bite back the automatically echoing "no" on the tip of his tongue. "Well, he's a pilot, yes, but…" he paused trying to think of something to say that would satisfy the men without betraying secrets and confidences the colonel didn't want to share.

Carter saved him—sort of—with a shrug, injecting, "Well, heck… I just always figured he learned it from his folks."

Newkirk and LeBeau gaped at him, aghast. Sputtering, Newkirk said, "You're barmy, mate. The colonel's mum and dad _German?_ You're absolutely mad."

"Certainement," LeBeau said. "That's crazy, Andrew. Colonel Hogan hates the Boche. He fights them."

"Too right," Newkirk exclaimed as though that settled it. "Besides, 'Hogan' is an English name," he said, almost straining himself to pronounce the 'H'. "Well, maybe Irish. But _not_ German."

"Yeah. Carter's not exactly a Sioux name either," Carter said reasonably.

"'Carter' is an English name, too," Newkirk put in. He gave Carter a friendly smack on the shoulder. "It's one of the things I like about you, mate."

But Kinch saw Carter give him a dark scowl. It took a lot to annoy Andrew, but Kinch recalled the thorough mocking he'd gotten when his Indian heritage was finally revealed had edged very close to actually angering the mild Carter. Kinch could see, as Newkirk apparently couldn't, Carter neared that edge again.

"So you wouldn't like me if you found out Grandpa had changed his name from… I dunno, Karterheim, when he came to the U.S.?" Carter asked, his eyes flashing at Newkirk.

"Don't get so touchy, Andrew," Newkirk said conciliatorily. "You know you're me mate no matter what. Besides, there's no way on earth you were a 'Karterheim'. You're a Yank, just like the colonel. Red-blooded yankee doodle…"

"Everyone in the States is from somewhere else, you know," Carter said flatly.

"Except the Indians," Kinch put in, giving Carter a warm grin.

"Except the Indians," Carter echoed. "Heck and golly gosh! I'm sorry for cussing, but 'bout half the kids I knew in Bullfrog, North Dakota spoke German at home 'cause a lot of their folks didn't speak English at all. Anyhow, now most of 'em are doing just like me—in the war, fighting Germany."

"Okay, Andrew," Newkirk said soothingly. "I'm sorry. But I still don't believe 'Carter' was ever 'Karterheim'."

Carter folded his arms across his chest and just glared. Or attempted to. Kinch had to stifle a chuckle. Carter's best glare came across more as a pout that any semblance of anger.

"Or that 'Hogan' might have been 'Hoganmüller'?" Kinch asked quietly. "The Kommandant bought that story quick enough when the colonel tried it on him. Remember?"

"The colonel does know an awful lot about Germany," LeBeau commented thoughtfully. "And does speak the language perfectly."

"Come on, now," Newkirk protested, "if Colonel 'ogan had any kin, distant, _distant_ kin, who spoke German, who _were_ German…" Newkirk shuddered slightly as he said it, Kinch noted, "why wouldn't he mention it? Why keep such a thing from us?"

"I think you've already answered that for yourself, Peter," Kinch said low. "Look at how you reacted to the idea. It's no different in the States. Or in our army."

From the corner of his eye, Kinch saw the colonel's office door open. The others didn't notice. Hogan had his coffee cup in hand, obviously intending to come out for a refill. The colonel caught Kinch's eye but didn't signal a 'cease and desist'. Instead he paused in the doorway, listening. Kinch wondered how long he'd been listening.

"I know a woman in Detroit," Kinch said slowly, "who got a visit from the FBI one day around Christmas in '41. She only spoke broken English, mostly spoke German. My oma." Kinch saw Hogan jerk slightly at the word. Carter and Newkirk didn't react, but LeBeau did, his eyes widening as he stared at Kinch. "She had a Navajo Indian blanket someone had given her as a souvenir. She had just washed it and was hanging it outside on the clothesline." Kinch looked at each of them individually to emphasize his point. "The blanket was red. There was a swastika big as life on that blanket. And Oma had a heavy German accent. But the swastika is also a Navajo Indian symbol. They were gonna arrest her and take her away because of that. She didn't understand what was going on. And Opa wasn't home to talk to them."

"What happened to her?" Hogan asked, coming into the room. He stopped at the stove, filling his coffee cup, but turned so only Kinch could see his face.

"I showed up and explained things," Kinch said. He cast a sideways glance up at Hogan. "Oma and Opa are German-Jews."

Hogan froze, coffee pot poised over his cup. He stared a dozen question marks at Kinch.

"I told you before," Kinch said very softly to the colonel, "we all have our reasons."

Nodding slowly, Hogan put the pot down and pulled out the chair at the end of the table. "Yeah," he said. "We do."

"I think I missed something," Carter inserted.

LeBeau turned from his unblinking stare at Kinch to say, "Oma and Opa are German for grandma and grandpa."

It took all Kinch had to not burst out laughing at the sudden scrutiny he got.

"Your grandma and grandpa were...?" Newkirk trailed off, looking at Kinch as though he'd sprouted a second head.

Carter, also staring, asked in all innocence, "Funny, you don't look..."

Hogan's sudden snort cut him off. Heaven only knew, Kinch thought, how Carter really meant to end that sentence.

"You mean _you're_ German?" Newkirk asked. "I mean, part German?"

"Imagine it," Kinch said, suppressing his grin. As deadpan as he could manage, Kinch said, "You just never can tell about a person, can you? It's a deep, dark family secret. We call 'em," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "the Krauts in the woodpile."

Okay, it was cruel, Kinch knew, for him to strategically wait until the colonel had just taken a gulp of his coffee, for now Hogan was choking on it. But, dang, it was worth it. Then Kinch measured the reactions of the others. Carter, dear innocent soul he was, had obviously never heard that expression in its original version and, bless him, didn't seem at all out of sorts to consider that Kinch had suddenly claimed to have German-Jewish grandparents. And the thought of mixing races and religions didn't seem to trouble him at all—but then, he had his own family experience with that, didn't he?

And Newkirk... the only part that bothered him was the German part. LeBeau still stared at him, wide-eyed. Kinch wasn't quite sure...

"Mon Dieu, mon ami," LeBeau whispered, absolute sympathy and worry in his tone. "Jews... Were there still family here?"

Good men, Kinch thought warmly. Good men, all. That left the colonel...

Hogan had quit choking and was repressing chuckles that the others clearly didn't understand. He was so sharp, Kinch thought, letting his own grin return. The colonel had seen through him. It took someone utterly at ease with others, regardless of their race, religion, or nationality, to see them only as people, to be taken solely and exactly as individuals. In these times, _especially_ in these times, that was a rare and fine thing indeed.

"Adopted grandparents," Kinch said. "This old immigrant couple moved in next door to us when I was a kid. They loved us like their own. I spent more time there than at home. Good folks." He glanced around the table again. "You all wondered how the colonel learned German, didn't you ever wonder how _I_ did?"

Kinch turned to LeBeau. "And, yes, Louie, Oma and Opa still had family here. They disappeared."

Only the faint crackle of the fire in the stove filled the long silence that followed.

"So, did you learn German from your folks, Colonel?" Carter broke in to the quiet.

Hogan shook himself slightly, Kinch saw, coming back to the present. "No." He paused and for a moment Kinch believed he was going to leave it at that, then Hogan said, "From Granddad." He chuckled softly, adding, "And a feistier old Kraut you never met. Lived into his nineties. Had quite the colorful vocabulary. Mom told me my first word was a nasty German cuss word." Hogan stood, picking up his coffee cup. "Granddad hated the Nazis with a passion. He also hated weak beer, Revenuers, and the New York Giants."

With a half-smile, Hogan turned away. "Kinch," he beckoned as he did. Kinch stood to follow the colonel. At his office door, Hogan looked back toward the table. "Oh, and, Newkirk... 'Hogan' is Irish. But some of Dad's family is from West Midlands."

"Told you he was English," Kinch heard Newkirk say with a touch of defiant pride as the office door closed.

To be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Episode 83, "War Takes a Holiday" follows immediately after "Sticky Wicket Newkirk" (chapter 11). Hochstetter has four Underground leaders in custody at Stalag 13. Hogan convinces Hochstetter and Klink the war has ended to get Hochstetter to release his prisoners, which he does. This is a radical revision of this episode shifting it from half-reality (they tried to rescue the Underground men and failed, as shown) to half-myth—What if we convinced Hochstetter the war was over, here's what could have happened…, but didn't. _

_

* * *

  
_

January 1944

"You can't win 'em all, Colonel," Kinch said low, in a conciliatory tone. Colonel Hogan sat on the bottom bunk, staring into space with an expression that said he was in no mood to be comforted. Kinch could tell the colonel's mind flew at jet speeds, trying to pull a last minute scheme out of the thin cold stratosphere. But none was to be had and they both knew it.

"I know," Hogan eventually answered. "But this is a bad one to lose."

Heck, Kinch thought… no, _hell_. He'd thought they could win 'em all too. He'd come to believe it. They had pulled off the impossible so many times before. For gosh sake, they'd managed to plant a bug in a Luftwaffe regional headquarter! This one looked like a cinch by comparison. At least it looked like it.

Four Underground leaders… right in front of them. Right here at Stalag 13, escape-central of all of Germany… and they couldn't save them. They'd tried. Tried their darnedest. The Kommandant had allowed that admittedly weak scheme with the mattresses being changed to go forth unchallenged. It reinforced Kinch's suspicion Klink was actively cooperating, but not Hogan's—he still held to the idea Klink was being wholly manipulated. Maybe it was a personal pride thing, Kinch considered. If Klink was cooperating, then it was Hogan being manipulated. Kinch had to admit, that was a hard one to swallow. Kommandant Klink just never radiated that sort of cleverness. But the mattress scheme… could even Klink be daft enough to not see through that one?

Hochstetter had seen through it in an instant.

"_Isn't this man ever locked up?!" _Hochstetter had shrieked at Klink about Colonel Hogan when he discovered his Underground prisoners being carried out of the cooler by Hogan's men.

Well, now Hogan was. Locked up. And just damned lucky, Kinch reflected, it wasn't in a Gestapo cell. At least Klink stood his ground (again) on that, keeping Colonel Hogan here in Luftwaffe custody over Hochstetter's snarling threats.

The shutters over the window in the colonel's office rattled. One of Hochstetter's men checking, for the tenth time, that they were secure. Locked down as tight as it could be, Barracks Two had SS guards on every side. Others were liable to come in at any moment to count heads. Still more patrolled around the tunnel exit outside the wire. They couldn't get out that way either. It would be suicide to try a rescue of the Underground men even if they could find a way to make the attempt. Not, Kinch allowed, that he'd put it past the colonel to try, no matter the odds. Kinch suppressed his own sigh of dismay. Nope. They'd just flat-out lost this one.

"They're gonna die," Hogan said flatly. Kinch studied him. He didn't seem to be really talking to Kinch. It was more to himself. His gaze looked not at the barracks but at the memories he seldom shared. "If they're lucky it will be sooner rather than later." Hogan let out a long breath. "We should have gotten cyanide capsules to them when we had the chance. Instead I deluded myself into believing we could get them out of here right under Klink and Hochstetter's noses. I fouled it up. Bad." Hogan rubbed his eyes. "I don't know what I was thinking. Even if we had gotten them out in those mattresses, Hochstetter would have had all of _us_ enjoying some fun-filled time in Berlin trying to explain how helping civilian prisoners of the Gestapo escape fits into the Geneva Convention's rules of prisoner conduct." Hogan paused, then added, "If he doesn't haul us off there anyhow." Letting out a short, humorless laugh, Hogan added, "Hochstetter figures he could break me in two hours."

The shutters rattled again.

Kinch saw the faint shiver run through his commanding officer. "Hey... Don't worry, sir. Klink will hold him at bay. Whether he's on our side or not, if we go down, he goes down. The Kommandant knows it."

Giving Kinch a long, unconvinced look, Hogan only said, "There should have been a way to save those guys. I should have been able to think of a way."

So much for Colonel Hogan accepting defeat, Kinch thought. "The only thing that would have saved them was the end of the war," he said.

Strangely, Hogan chuckled. "That's it. We should have ended the war." He sat up, his eyes lighting up the way they did when he was cooking up some really bizarre scheme. Kinch watched with interest. "We'd convince Klink and Hochstetter the war was over. Klink opens the gates. And Hochstetter doesn't have any reason to hold his prisoners any more, so he releases them." Hogan chuckled again.

"We could print up a fake newspaper with a headline about the war being over," Kinch said, following along with the never-could-happen scheme, "plant it on Schultz when the mail arrives…"

"It would take more than that," Hogan said. "We'd have to take over the local radio station and broadcast it on the news too. All that would satisfy Klink. He's an easy sell. But Hochstetter is too suspicious. He'd call Berlin…"

"…so Newkirk intercepts the call at our switchboard and fakes a big party in Berlin. Everyone all happy 'cause the war's over," Kinch said.

"I wouldn't buy it, of course," Hogan said, a grin spread across his face as he lost himself in the plan. "I'd accuse them of setting it up to trap us. But," he emphasized his point by waving his finger in the air, "if Hochstetter released his Underground prisoners, then I'd believe it. You know, the Gestapo would be eager to prove they aren't the evil bastards they really are…"

"…want to improve their public image…" The shutters rattled.

"…so, Hochstetter releases them and they join the prisoners drinking beer and celebrating," Hogan painted the picture of the scene with guards and prisoners having a huge party together, gates to the camp flung wide open, gallons of beer flowing.

"Where would enough beer for one thousand men come from?" Kinch questioned with a frown.

Hogan shrugged. "It's all impossible anyhow, just play along with the delusion. But, you know, there's a missing element." He grinned again. "I know… I convince Hochstetter to lend the Underground men his car to drive into town. And they'd be away. Free."

The shutters rattled. The thirteenth time. The rumble of a truck engine starting sounded clearly through the thin barracks' walls. The Underground men being moved out. Hogan's grin faded. The sound of the truck moved past the barracks, toward the gate. Gone. Gone to meet a terrible fate. Not free.

"Yeah," Kinch said softly, sadly. "That would've been a great plan."

The sound of the truck carrying the Underground men faded, leaving a long dark silence behind.

* * *

Klink tapped his pencil on his desk blotter in a nervous staccato. He dropped the pencil abruptly. Then as quickly picked it up again, resuming the tapping.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Colonel Hogan… I… I want you to know…" Klink glanced up. Hogan stood still before his desk, as near to attention as he ever managed, which was to say, at least he wasn't slouching insolently with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. Instead he stared stonily at Klink with an scowl likely concealing outright fear. "I want you to know I have emphasized in my reports that this incident of you attempting to help Hochstetter's prisoners to escape was nothing more than a routine, legitimate—well, criminal, but criminal in an entirely legitimate sort of way…" Klink cut himself off, pressing his lips together tightly. He was near to babbling again. "I've emphasized that I view it as an utterly routine escape attempt by prisoners of war, and ought to be treated as such. Not…" He looked up at Hogan, meeting his eyes, "…not as an act of espionage helping civilian prisoners escape from a civilian authority—the Gestapo."

"Those men were prisoners in the Luftstalag where I am senior POW officer. I didn't check their military credentials. Nor the Gestapo's claimed lack of them. It was my duty to help them escape," Hogan said flatly.

"I've made that argument on your behalf," Klink said. "Repeatedly." He sighed again and looked back down at the tapping pencil in his hand. "Hochstetter is making the opposite argument. Forcefully." Klink stilled the pencil and glanced up, letting his own worry sound in his voice. "You crossed a line, Hogan. A very serious line."

Klink fell silent, waiting for Hogan to respond. There existed no ploy or wild explanation that could cause this situation to go away. No tale Hogan could spin would satisfy everyone and quell Hochstetter. Hogan had simply and completely been caught in the act.

Mercifully, Klink allowed, it had been 'simple'. His attempt to help those four Underground prisoners escape had been one that truly could have occurred at any Stalag. Smuggled out in mattresses? Almost commonplace. And not very good. Certainly not overly elaborate. There had been no hint of tunnels or secret transmitters or an escapee processing center. There had only been men taking a big chance on a simple ploy. Oddly, though he stood a real chance of being executed as a spy over this very basic scheme, Hogan had also done measures of good for himself in demonstrating that Hochstetter's claims about Hogan's more exotic abilities were wild exaggerations. If he survived this one. Klink found himself wondering again about the truth as he thought he knew it.

Hogan spoke out of a long, glum silence. "So what happens next?"

"I am ordered to continue keeping you and your men confined to the barracks. The Luftwaffe High Command is investigating. Once they've made a decision…" Klink trailed off a moment. Clearing his throat briskly, he continued, "I'm sure you're aware the Luftwaffe resists turning over our prisoners to the Gestapo. But the Gestapo… Well, they're a law unto themselves. Above any law." Klink didn't hide his short sigh of disgust. "The Luftwaffe High Command won't turn you over to the Gestapo unless they absolutely have to… unless they're certain…" Klink cut himself off again as he took in Hogan's expression. Of course. He'd already been handed over to the Gestapo once already for extensive questioning when the Luftwaffe failed to extract any information from him themselves. Hogan would not be reassured by Klink's claims about the Luftwaffe's benign policies and protections. For that matter, the Luftwaffe might decide to try and execute Hogan themselves, without any Gestapo involvement. Gott im Himmel… if Hogan really could contact any Allied agents entrenched within the German command structure, now was certainly the time.

Clearing his throat again, Klink dropped the tapping pencil and forced himself to meet Hogan's eyes again. "I've been informed that an Abwehr officer is arriving here tomorrow. I have not been informed as to the purpose of his visit, but I suspect, obviously, that it's related to this situation."

"Abwehr?" Hogan echoed. He stared off into space thoughtfully. "Hmm… The Gestapo's archenemy. The Gestapo's just-as-evil archenemy."

"Don't say things like that, Hogan," Klink blurted. "This officer could hold your life—" he gestured emphatically toward his own chest "—and mine! in his hands."

"Who is this Abwehr officer?" Hogan asked.

Klink glanced down at his paperwork. "I've never heard of him." Shuffling through the papers, he found the notice he'd received. "Umm… a Major Hans Teppel." Imploringly, Klink looked up at Hogan. "Please, Hogan, whatever you do, don't antagonize him."

To be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:**

_Episode 103, "Bad Day in Berlin". An Abwehr (German military intelligence) major named Hans Teppel shows up and turns out to be an American double-agent name Morrison planted in Germany more than ten years earlier. He takes Hogan and Co. to Berlin to recover a double agent who is about to blow Hogan's operation plus betray many of their contacts. _

* * *

"_Please, Hogan, whatever you do, don't antagonize him."_

"I'll remember you, Fritz," Hogan told the Abwehr major with a dark chilliness Klink was grateful not to be on the receiving end of. Dismayed yet unsurprised, Klink thought, the 'don't antagonize him' plea hadn't lasted long. The way Hogan said it marked to Klink a reality of the broader situation—Hogan was making a list, a literal list of those he meant to go after when the war had ended. Where did Wilhelm Klink rank on that list? And why did everybody have to make lists? Lists, it seemed to Klink, caused nothing but trouble to all concerned. Hansie Kronman's face flashed through his mind. Scowling, he banished the thought.

"A prisoner threatens me?" Major Teppel questioned Klink's inaction. Other than his automatic warning cry of 'Colonel Hogan!', Klink hadn't moved to intercede between the two in word or gesture. Though Schultz frantically tried to shush the angry prisoners, Klink hadn't indicated Schultz, the only guard present, should step into the volatile situation between the prisoners and the Abwehr major. This was Hogan's problem. He could handle it. Hogan was a colonel, after all, and Klink wasn't his keeper… Ahem. Well, he was, but not… Somehow the 'thoroughly cowed' disclaimer seemed inappropriate at this moment. Hogan's expression said anything but.

Major Teppel had seemed so pleasant to Klink when he arrived. Yet his overt hostility to the enemy prisoners stood in stark contrast to his friendly demeanor to Klink. As the door to Hogan's quarters slammed in his face, Klink called to mind the curious visit with that Captain Ritter; how Hogan and Ritter had immediately bristled at each other. As it turned out, they knew each other, had some sort of history, apparently a quite personal one. Ritter hadn't been exactly what he appeared at first—just an officer curious about the enemy. As he recoiled at being shut out of the office and the confrontation, Klink had to wonder if there might not be more to Major Teppel than met the eye too.

* * *

Hogan's shock at the nasty Nazi pulling out the matching half-playing card, and correctly reciting the recognition code couldn't have been greater. His instant impulse was to doubt Teppel and suspect a trap. Had Abwehr caught and broke their real contact? If so, sending a uniformed member of military intelligence to play the role seemed absurd. Then his shock multiplied exponentially when Teppel stopped speaking German and announced in decidedly American-accented English, "Robert J. Morrison, Milwaukee."

Gaping at him, Hogan asked, "A major in German intelligence?" Holy cats. A thousand questions, most of them downright scary, leapt to the tip of his tongue.

Hastily, Teppel… um, _Morrison_, intercepted him before he could ask any of them. "Can't talk now, Hogan. Klink asked me to stay for dinner. Can you arrange something?"

"Yeah," Hogan said, "As soon as I get over the shock of an American in German uniform." So stunned was he, Hogan didn't even pause to count all the times he had been in a German uniform. That was different. Hogan acted the role of a German officer. Teppel lived it.

With a chuckle Teppel/Morrison said, "It's a crazy war." _And I've just lost my ranking as the chief crazy in the intelligence business,_ Hogan thought. _If London thinks I'm nuts, how must Morrison rate?_

"Your life insurance premiums must be murder," Hogan commented with a hint of admiration and more than a hint of awe. Suddenly the operation at Stalag 13 looked downright safe and tame.

* * *

"So, is that Abwehr creep gonna trump our Gestapo creep?" Kinch asked Colonel Hogan after the Krauts vacated the barracks. "Or are we in deeper trouble than before?" Could the trouble get any deeper? Kinch wondered. They had Hochstetter breathing down their necks, Klink tightening security because of it, and now London had gone eerily quiet on them.

As the others clamored around Hogan, alternately grumbling about the nasty Abwehr major or machine-gunning out questions about what had taken place in Hogan's office, Hogan stared tightly at the barrack's door. Kinch took his stance to be worry. What had been said in that office? Had there been another confrontation? More threats exchanged? Or had Colonel Hogan managed to twist the situation around to their advantage, or at least so they weren't at so much of a disadvantage?

Then the colonel turned toward them, a wry half-smile creeping over his face. "That Abwehr creep is one of us," he said as though he didn't quite believe it himself.

"One of us what?" Newkirk demanded, obviously still smarting from the confrontation with the major.

Hogan tilted his head with a bemused look. "One of _us_ us," he said, gesturing around to the men, but especially Kinch and Carter. "He's an American. An agent."

You could have heard a pin drop.

You could feel the utter disbelief thick in the air.

Softly, Kinch said, "Would you say that again, please, Colonel?"

Shaking his head, apparently still digesting the information himself, Hogan repeated, "He's an American. Herr Major Hans Teppel, Abwehr, is actually Robert Morrison of Milwaukee, Wisconsin."

"That dirty Nazi pig is…" Newkirk started.

"That filthy Boche is…" LeBeau overlapped him.

Cutting them all off, Kinch demanded, "Are you sure, Colonel?"

With a sigh and a tilt of his head, Hogan said, "Sure enough for now. He had the recognition signals." Another sigh, this one carrying a worried sound. "He wants to meet tonight. I'll try to find out more then. If he's legit, we got a way out of this mess with the Gestapo for us trying to help those Underground leaders."

"If not?" Kinch had to ask.

Hogan just chuckled. "If not… the firing squad will be wearing Abwehr uniforms instead of SS."

* * *

Time was short and Hogan had his first question firmly in mind as he strode into Klink's quarters. Even the meaningless chatter about becoming president or general had a testing quality—feeling out Teppel; seeing how he reacted. Leaning against the back of a chair Hogan studied Morrison intently as he asked, "How long have you been in the Kraut army?" An agent couldn't just be planted in, not in that outfit and not at that rank, just any old time. The background had to be there. The credentials had to stand up to the most exacting checks the Nazis could make. And the Nazis could be very, very exacting. The few who had tried had been found out almost at once.

Morrison clearly realized he was being interrogated, expected it, and didn't dispute Hogan's need to check the references. "Ten years," he said. Hogan did the math. Early '34. Damn. Verdammt. Right about the time Hogan, himself, started to see the Nazi peril for what it really was and badgered all those who listen about it and even more of those who wouldn't. "It started back home. I was ordered to join the German-American Bund." _Those bastards._ Morrison spoke rapidly, the words definitely rehearsed. Yet watching and listening, Hogan believed what he said was the truth.

"The next order was a beauty," Morrison went on. "I had to give up my citizenship so the Germans would take me."

Hogan had to glance down and away. That hit too many places way too close to home for comfort. "Ordered to become a traitor," Hogan commented. How many times had he proposed to the U.S. intelligence services that they get someone in and get them in _now? _'Now' being years before the U.S. finally broke its neutrality and launched head-long into the fight. Maybe someone had been listening after all. Helluva a price for Morrison to pay. Had Morrison being ordered to give up his citizenship been the result of Hogan's rather emphatic reports on the state of Nazi Germany and their military build-up right about that time? My God…

"Right," Morrison said shortly, correctly interpreting Hogan's acceptance of his story. Hogan admired the quick, efficient way he dealt with things. Very methodical. Maybe he learned that in the Kraut army. They were a methodical damned bunch. "Now, let's get down to business. We gotta talk fast. You know Robin Hood?" Morrison asked.

Hogan squinted at him. Morrison knew about all of that too? "Yeah," Hogan said. "He's one of our control agents in London headquarters. We get our orders from him by radio."

"You won't anymore," Morrison said. "He's come back to Germany."

What the hell did that mean? "Back to Germany? I don't follow."

"It's easy. He's a Kraut," Morrison said lightly.

This Teppel/Morrison had way too much of a sense of humor for this line of work, Hogan thought. He had to be kidding. "Come on," Hogan said.

Morrison turned serious. He wasn't kidding. "Real name Decker. German-American, like myself. Deep agent planted years ago." It went both ways. Sure. Hogan knew that. "OSS got a line on him. He found out and took off." No wonder London had been so quiet. It wasn't the incident with the French Underground prisoners that had Morrison here. That could only get Hogan shot. Almost a mundane problem by comparison. London probably hadn't given that even a moment's worry. Especially considering this. Especially considering this…

The implications hit him an abrupt, horrifying moment. "He could sell us out like that." Hogan snapped his fingers. "He's got more secrets than General Marshal."

"He's gotta know half the undercover network in Europe," Morrison said, spelling out the reality as Hogan summed up the connections in his head. "Names, places, dates, codes... Everybody's gotta hole-up."

Suddenly safe, quiet, perfect-cover Stalag 13 didn't look like a haven any more. It looked like a trap. It was a trap. The extra security Hochstetter forced on Klink had turned the place into a real prison. Hogan had to move; wanted to run. Jumping up, he crossed the room that suddenly had become too confining. He peered out the window. Guards everywhere. Wire. Search lights. Machine guns. A guard sitting right on the Emergency Tunnel tree stump.

"We are holed-up. We're in a POW camp, remember. Gestapo wants us, all they have to do is shake the tree and we fall out, dead," Hogan snapped. Dead. Dead would be easy. Getting to 'dead' would be the nightmare. Two hours, Hochstetter had said. Oh, no, that bastard could make it last a lot longer than that once he got creative. But Hochstetter was a neutered pussycat compared to the real pros at Prinz-Albrecht-Straße 8, Berlin. And it wouldn't be just him facing them. The others… His men… The Hammelburg Underground—many of them now tacitly counted as friends. Familiar faces. Loyal comrades. The French Resistance contacts in the network… Tiger… Robin Hood—_Decker_—knew about them all.

Calmly, patiently, Morrison said, "Not if we get to Decker first. We know where he is. Hotel Berlin. The brass in London want him back. Still breathing."

Hogan gaped at him. All right. When this was over, if he was still alive—and that was a big 'if'—Hogan wasn't taking any more of London's Scheiβe about _his_ crazy schemes. They'd just topped his crazy altitude record by stalling heights. Or brought it down to a smack-into-a-mountain altitude. "You're kidding." _Tell me you're kidding. Please._

Even though he recognized Morrison's tone was meant to be soothing, it didn't touch Hogan as Morrison said, "They want to know who his contacts are in England. Then he stands trial for espionage."

"Three hundred, maybe four hundred, people could be executed and they want to play 'information please'?" Hogan demanded. If they had a line on Decker, why on earth would they delay knocking him off? Crazy beyond crazy. War required sacrificing people sometimes, yes. But, verdammt, not like this. And why was Morrison warning them? Did he expect Hogan to cut and run while all those others were rounded up?

"Those are the orders," Morrison said flatly. "Return him to England before he starts talking. Now right now he's waiting for General Schellenberg, Gestapo, to return to Berlin from the Eastern Front."

Fine. They had a little time. How many could he warn? Could he warn any? The camp was locked down tight. Hochstetter could show up and grab him at any moment. Did Morrison even know about that little problem? "Well, good luck," Hogan said, wanting to get going _right now. _If he could. Not that he could. He couldn't. They were stuck here. "With Decker on the loose, I'm gonna make out my will. You couldn't use a six-year-old motorcycle, could you? It's in a garage back home. The tires aren't too bad." Cripes. He sounded like Klink when he was in a nervous panic.

Still absurdly calm, Morrison said, "Hogan… You've had experience with this kind of a job. Decker hasn't seen you and you're not known in Berlin."

That's why Morrison was here?! Not to warn Hogan but to enlist him? And not known in Berlin? If he hadn't been so overwhelmed, Hogan would have laughed. Okay, so Morrison didn't know _everything_. Not known in Berlin. Not known by who? Could we narrow the list? Then Hogan leapt past that not-so-little problem to the insanely huge problem with this scheme. "They expect us to go to Berlin and grab a German agent out of a hotel?"

"Your life is on the line, too," Morrison said. "You'll be among the first."

_I know that. Too verdammt well._ "Uh, how are we supposed to get there? Ask Klink for a weekend pass?" Guards. Wire. Searchlights. Roll calls.

Morrison explained, "The Abwehr. My outfit." _A little creepy the way you said that, Morrison/Teppel. How many lines have you blurred beyond recognition these last ten years to maintain your cover?_ "We have orders to keep interrogating prisoners of war. So I take you and your men to Berlin, for questioning. And Klink comes along, too."

The vapor-lock in Hogan's brain cleared and the engine started revving again, gaining altitude. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't crash into that mountain. Yeah. It could work. Of all the things they'd done this would be the biggest personal risk yet, in every way imaginable, but it could work. Maybe take care of two problems at once—get Morrison's Abwehr to resolve the Hochstetter situation. Klink had been expecting something like this, so he wouldn't raise a fuss. If they…

_Klink comes along too?_ "Who needs him?" Hogan asked. Klink had heard him speak German with a perfectly fluent Berlinerisch accent more than once. And he knew Hogan had more than a passing acquaintance with a former Berlin schoolteacher named Rudy Ritter. Heaven knew what Klink could blurt out.

"Regulations. A Luftwaffe officer must be present at all interrogations," Morrison said. "Now, time is a factor. We leave early in the morning."

Grimly, Hogan ran it all through in his mind once more before he relented to the inevitable. "All right."

* * *

Hogan radiated nothing but an icy coolness as he informed the men they'd be going to Berlin the next morning for Abwehr questioning. Relief rippled through Barracks Two. The colonel endorsed Major Teppel as being, in reality, an American agent named Morrison. A trip to Berlin for the sake of saving the organization, and themselves, would be little more than a jaunt through the country compared Hochstetter's plans for them.

Kinch couldn't share the relief. Instead, he watched Hogan closely. There was more going on here than an agent trying to bail them out of the Hochstetter situation. Stretched taut with barely contained tension, Hogan most decidedly was not relieved. Then Colonel Hogan dropped the other shoe and they all stared at him in horror as the reality of Robin Hood/Decker being a Gestapo double-agent sank in.

"Mon Dieu," LeBeau whispered, sinking down at the table. He began muttering to himself in French.

Reacting with the characteristic anger borne of helpless frustration, Newkirk threw a tin cup across the room and swore in barely understandable Cockney curses.

Carter, ducking out of the way of Newkirk's cup, looked at the colonel with wide-eyed fear. "It'll be okay, Colonel," Carter said with what Kinch decided was meant to be stalwart confidence. But Carter's voice quavered when he added, "Won't it?"

"Why, sure it will," Kinch inserted, managing to hold his voice steady. He really did think they could pull off such a brazen thing, _if_ Colonel Hogan thought they could. Hogan gave him a grim look. Kinch scowled and felt a twitch of outright fear, himself. Colonel Hogan wasn't at all sure they could pull this off. In Berlin they had no line of retreat. No Underground support system. No emergency backup contingencies in place. Berlin was the most hostile of hostile territory. And they'd be flying without chutes. And the colonel's past could be a liability rather than an asset. Kinch gulped. "Sir…" he began hesitantly.

Abruptly, Colonel Hogan let out a stream of uncharacteristically vivid cussing in a mishmash of English and German. Sinking down to the table, he buried his face in his hands a moment. With a fortifying breath, he looked up to study the men. Kinch had never seen him look quite so thoroughly scared before, like he was holding a line on pure panic through sheer force of will.

"All right," Hogan said, seeming to be searching for the words to say. "There's something else all of you should know. Teppel… Morrison… is confident this can work because Decker has never seen me. And he's never heard me speak anything but English over the radio, so he's not likely to recognize my voice when he hears me in German. So, okay…" He hesitated again. "Morrison also said we could pull this off because I'm not known in Berlin." Colonel Hogan turned to each of them, holding their eyes for a moment. He held Kinch's eyes an extra time, communicating much in that long look.

"That's not strictly true," Hogan went on tightly. His voice took on a distant tone. "I've been there. Berlin. More than once. Way the hell more than once." He tilted his head in a way that suggested to Kinch he was still leaving a lot unsaid. Hogan went on, "And… okay, it's a big city. Lots of people. The odds of running into someone who would wonder if they've ever met me…"

"Heck, if they wonder if you look familiar, you'll just ask 'em if they've ever been to Milwaukee," Carter blurted.

Every eye turned to Carter for a blank moment, then sudden insight swept over the men.

"Blimey," Newkirk said, "That's why you say that to the odd Kraut officer or two. Some of 'em chaps actually 'ave met you. When you was in Berlin…"

"Spying on the Nazis," LeBeau finished up with a hint of sheer admiration. "Mon Dieu," he repeated.

"Spying on 'em even before the war," Newkirk put in thoughtfully.

"That's how you know so much…" LeBeau started.

"…more than a bomber pilot could possibly…" Newkirk filled in.

"Still, if you were there once or twice, what are the odds…?" Carter allowed.

"How…?"

"When…?"

"Why…?"

The questions started flying. Kinch held his tongue, waiting to see of the colonel would say the rest.

Waving his hand for silence, Hogan said, "No questions. Someday I'll let you in on the details, but not now. But I want you to know the risks—the risks even Morrison doesn't know. I've gotta do this, but maybe we could pull the rest of you out… when the truck leaves camp… have the Underground intercept…"

"We're staying, Colonel," Kinch said low, cutting Hogan off. "_I'm_ in," he amended. Kinch hesitated. "But you ought to tell them the rest. So they understand the risk. Know what to look out for. Know what sort of situations could come up. Know what we need to guard against." Kinch knew his role would be limited by necessity—the Germans simply would never take him as a German. LeBeau was marginal. Carter and Newkirk were key. Their understanding of German had improved, though their accents for any extended speech still screamed 'foreigner', especially Carter. Both still tended to shift into English at a moment's notice, or if they thought no one was nearby—a dangerous habit. Carter was especially easy to trip up.

Hogan studied him as LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk stared at them, questions barely restrained.

Clearing his throat, Hogan said, "All right." Standing abruptly, Hogan let some of his worry show in nervous energy as he checked windows, peered out the door, paced. He seemed to be deciding what to say, where to start.

"All right," he repeated. "You remember about a year ago, a Wehrmacht captain stopped by here. Captain Ritter?"

Three heads shook 'no'. The visit, a landmark for Hogan, and in a smaller way, Kinch, hadn't left a lasting impression on the others.

"Well, I know him. Known him a long time, actually… Him, his family, some of their neighbors, acquaintances, friends… Rudy's kind of, um, kinda a relative, you might say."

"Some distant relation of your grandfather?" Newkirk asked. Kinch noted he still had that edge of distaste to his voice at the idea of anyone, especially the colonel, having German kin. "_Distant_ relation," Newkirk emphasized.

Hogan studied the ceiling as he answered. "Not… not so very distant. He's my cousin."

"The one from Milwaukee?" Newkirk asked in a tell-me-what-I-want-to-hear way.

Carter jumped a little as he had one of his oh-so-brilliant revelations. The jump promptly leapt him to the wrong conclusion, of course. "Holy cow, Colonel! You got a cousin who's a double-agent in the Wehrmacht?"

Double-agents everywhere, Kinch thought grimly. Morrison, Decker, and now-and-then Colonel Hogan. But not this time.

"Sacré vache," LeBeau mirrored Carter's exclamation.

"Uh… no," Hogan said, low. "Not the cousin from Milwaukee. The cousin from Berlin." And there was that gaping look of shock from all of them. Kinch just frowned. Hogan went on, "Captain Ritter, Rudy Ritter, is a Berliner. He was a schoolteacher before he joined the Wehrmacht. In Berlin. He was… _is…_ Umm…"

"Working for our side though, right, sir?" Carter ask, then went on without waiting for an answer. "Good golly gosh! That's just swell. A captain in the Wehrmacht we can count on to…"

"Carter!" Hogan snapped.

"…back us up. And I bet he's in good with the Berlin Underground. And…"

"Carter!" Hogan and Kinch snapped in unison. "Shut up," Kinch added. With his kicked-puppy pout, Carter quieted down.

"No," Hogan said. "Rudy's not on our side. He's a stone-cold Nazi and has been for a long time. And we've been fighting about it for just as long. The family reunion would not be warm and welcoming." Hogan stopped and appeared to regroup. "Never mind that. The point is, Berlin is about the riskiest place in all of Germany for me to be—especially in civilian clothes or a German uniform. People don't see what they don't expect to see. They see what they want. You know that. It's the main reason we can operate like we do. If some Kraut officer sees me here, he may think I look vaguely familiar but he won't connect the prisoner in an American uniform—who speaks German, but always with a bad American accent—with the person they saw in Berlin who they were certain was a native Berliner, and sounded it."

"And the Kommandant usually throws in his comment about how you're a common type and lots of people think they've seen you before," Kinch commented thoughtfully.

Hogan nodded. "Which all adds up to them dismissing the recognition as being impossible, faulty memory."

Kinch was still processing all of this, running it back to other times, other encounters. "Sir," he began slowly, "did you ever run into Colonel Klink here in Germany, before the war?"

"Huh?" Hogan stared at him a moment, the caught on to Kinch's train of thought. "Huh," he repeated but without the questioning tone. "I don't think so. Klink never looked familiar to me. And I didn't recognize his name."

"But you were spying on the Luftwaffe in particular, weren't you, sir?" Kinch asked as he put more pieces of the puzzle together. "I mean, it makes sense that's what an Army Air Corps pilot would be working on the most, even if you were attached to Intelligence at the time."

Hogan nodded slowly. "You're too damned smart sometimes, Kinch. Yeah. Especially when the Luftwaffe started building up again around '35. When they had no planes they weren't much of a danger. But when they violated the Treaty and started rearming…" He shook his head. "Coupled with the Nazis' ambitions to conquer the world. I saw the warning signs all over that. And us, and the Brits, had nothing that could match the machines they were building. But to have run across Klink and not remember it…?"

Kinch shrugged. "You know yourself Klink's not really a memorable sort. And how much attention would you be paying to a Luftwaffe colonel who probably hasn't been up in a plane since the Kaiser's time. An administrator without any real secrets he could spill. If I know you, sir, you'd have been targeting the pilots and the ambitious lower-ranking officers. Klink wouldn't have even been on your radar. The same thing you just said," Kinch added with a small grin, "working on you—maybe you did run across Klink the same way some of these Kraut officers ran across you and when you saw him here you just saw what you expected to see."

"Thanks, Kinch," Hogan said with a scowl. "I didn't have enough worries to keep me busy at the moment." Standing, Hogan laid his hands flat on the tabletop and let out a long breath. "Well, tomorrow we walk right into the lion's den, the heart of the Reich. Tomorrow… Berlin." Hogan strode away before any more questions could burst out, slamming his office door a little too hard behind him.

To be continued...


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Always a tricky concept at Stalag 13, 'normal' had stepped even further out of reach than… well, _normal_, Klink decided.

Bidding Teppel good night, Klink caressed his violin for a moment as he contemplated the door closing behind the Abwehr major. The major had complimented his playing enthusiastically, even requesting encore after encore. Absently stroking the violin, Klink considered the only other person ever to do so: Hogan. But only when he was scheming.

With a final tender stroke, Klink laid the violin back in its well-worn case. Major Teppel had laughed heartily and applauded Klink's (not too shabby even if he had to say so himself) rendition of the American Air Corps' _Wild Blue Yonder_ song. Such a pleasant, agreeable man.

To Klink.

After a last, fortifying gulp of their after-dinner schnapps, Klink surrendered to the inevitable. Straightening his uniform jacket, Klink stepped through to his office and started to send for Sergeant Schultz. On second thought, he called for two other guards—two of the very few the prisoners didn't consider 'tame'. Thanks to the demands of Hochsetter for heightened security, there were plenty of guards on duty to choose from. These two had been assigned to temporary duty at the stalag from the garrison in town. They weren't the sort Klink would normally keep around for long—too likely to be trigger happy. Still, sometimes, in certain situations, a 'Schultz' just wouldn't do.

"Bring Colonel Hogan," Klink ordered the two when they reported, then sat down at his desk to wait.

It seemed a long time before a knock sounded at his door. A _knock_.

"Enter," Klink called. Standing, he braced himself. Nervously, he fussed with the papers on his desk.

Hogan stepped into the office, flanked by the two goons… uh, _guards, _Klink silently amended himself. Hogan wore as tight an expression on his face as Klink had ever seen. It surpassed the look he'd seen on Hogan in the presence of the Gestapo, even beyond that he wore earlier in the confrontation with Teppel. Did Hogan know what was coming? He had to at least suspect. Had Teppel told him when they'd been in Hogan's quarters alone?

Matching Hogan's uncharacteristically proper salute, Klink peered closer. Curious. If he wasn't mistaken, Hogan was scared.

Once before Klink had used the "how would you like to spend a few weeks in Berlin?" threat on Hogan to stop him down when he'd become insufferable. Indeed, it had stopped him cold. The jab, a counter to Hogan's incessant Russian Front taunts, hit Hogan even harder than the Russian Front comments hit Klink. He'd never said it to Hogan again. Not even as a joke.

This time it was no joke.

"Colonel Hogan," Klink began, his voice less stalwart than he would have wished it, "tomorrow morning you and your men are being taken to Berlin for questioning by Abwehr."

Klink waited for the reaction. There was none. Or, perhaps, there was, but so slight, so controlled, it barely registered. Still, Klink couldn't get over the impression Hogan was simply and frankly afraid to a height Klink had never seen in him before. Hogan? Certainly, he'd seen Hogan get briefly scared before—war was a terrifying business, no matter the role one played in it. But Colonel Hogan? A more brazen, fearless, cockily confident person Klink had seldom before met. Oh, not the 'laugh in the face of death' sort like some of the Luftwaffe fliers he knew, nor like the lunatics in the SS. True, Hogan feared the Gestapo. Decidedly. Who didn't? That only said Colonel Hogan was still reasonably sane. Klink had seen that kind of worried fear in him before, but this… This was…

Panic. That was it. Tightly contained. Rigidly controlled. But there it was. Klink fidgeted with his papers on the desk again. Something about this situation had the indomitable Colonel Hogan on the raw edge of outright panic. Gott im Himmel! What on earth, or in the flak-filled sky above it, could have Hogan frightened to that point?

A resonance of Hogan's fear echoed through Klink. It didn't strike him as hard, though. Fear was a familiar acquaintance of Klink's. Even panic was an old, recognized comrade. What did give him a new twitch of unease was that Hogan seemed not fully in control of this situation.

"I, umm… will be accompanying," Klink went on after a moment's silence, "and will be present at the interrogations." _This could be rough for you, but it won't be any Gestapo torture chamber. The Luftwaffe still has overriding custody. At least for now. Unless the Abwehr major's report recommends you be turned over to the Gestapo for the attempt to free Hochstetter's Underground prisoners. Teppel seemed so pleasant. To Klink… _

Still no reaction from Hogan.

"Have your men ready," Klink said, struggling not to babble to fill the void. "We leave for Berlin at dawn."

He waited.

Finally, Hogan stirred. "Yes, sir." He seemed acutely aware of the two guards—real guards—flanking him. Klink suddenly couldn't decide if they had been a mistake or not. No, it didn't matter. Not even teddy-bear Schultz could have soothed this situation. The tension was a solid, undeniable presence in this room. "Will that be all, sir?" Hogan asked tautly.

Klink stared a moment. "Yes. You are dismissed."

Another proper military salute passed between them and Hogan and his escorts were gone, leaving Klink to stare in worried puzzlement at yet another closed door.

Crossing to the window, Klink watched the spotlights track Hogan and the guards back to Barracks Two. It looked like a prison out there. A real prison. Klink repressed a quaver of what the prisoners must feel on a constant basis.

The lights were on inside the barracks. Tonight he'd let the forbidden after-hours use of precious electricity go. There'd probably be little sleep taking place in that hut tonight. With a glance around the camp, and the fence perimeter, Klink realized any talk of escape in Barracks Two tonight would be just that—talk. This may be the point at which Colonel Hogan most wanted to escape, but—thanks to Hochstetter—was least likely to be able to do so.

Hogan had to feel trapped.

Klink knew that feeling all too well.

Turning away, he switched off the office lights and returned to his quarters. Settling down at his table, he opened again the large folder about Colonel Hogan. Once more, Klink tried to work out the puzzle.

On the one hand, there was the dark and mysterious Colonel Hogan who was a spy and saboteur operating a secret base and escape center from within a POW camp. Klink so thoroughly believed the truth of it he'd even dared front an offer of cooperation—an offer either misunderstood or outright rebuffed. This was the view of Hogan that Klink, in his heart, believed the most likely. Hochstetter did too, much as Klink hated to agree with the evil little Gestapo thug. But Hochstetter had been unable to prove it, so far at least.

Then shone the other hand… There was the Hogan who got caught in a clumsy attempt to free Underground prisoners from Stalag 13's cooler by smuggling them out in mattresses. He'd been caught red-handed. As well he might have, so sloppy and unimaginative was the attempt. Now he was in direly serious trouble over this blandly ordinary… well, it hardly merited the word 'scheme'. If this was all that really was going on here at Stalag 13, beneath all the bizarre activities, then Colonel Hogan was just a downed pilot, captured and out of action. This view also made Hogan the world's worst escape committee chairman and far, far from being the 'most dangerous man in all Germany'.

Which Hogan was the real one?

Hogan and Berlin… There was something there, something beyond a generally ominous 'enemy prisoners in the heart of the Reich' fear. Memories of the Gestapo? Of his two dark months in their custody? Had that affected Hogan so deeply that just the thought brought to the surface what Klink considered might best be described as 'shell shock'? Having seen more than enough of that in the Great War, and among colleagues after, Klink knew better than to just dismiss such a thing as weakness or cowardice. Hogan was no coward. Never. Was Berlin, somehow, his Achilles Heel, though?

Maybe. Klink leaned back and toyed with his monocle as he pondered. It just may be.

Flipping rapidly through the papers, Klink went again to the scanty reports of Hogan's time in Gestapo custody. Line by line he went through every word, not that there were many. The Gestapo were not an organization noted for sharing. Well, now… This didn't quite match… He flipped back to the Luftwaffe evaluation center's final reports, and to Burkhalter's transfer orders that brought Hogan to Stalag 13. Hmm… Hogan hadn't been taken to Berlin Gestapo Headquarters at all. Those two months had apparently taken place in Düsseldorf. So the panicky fear of a trip to Berlin wasn't due to memories of the Gestapo.

It was Berlin itself.

Bomber pilot… spy… saboteur… trapped POW… Inept escape artist… American cowboy finally in over his head?

Hogan spoke fluent German. No pretense there, anymore. That fact had been included in Klink's not-terribly-informative reports. But Klink had also suggested that Hogan probably learned it after arriving at Stalag 13 (he hadn't quite lied outright in the report, only _suggested_). Hochstetter certainly knew Hogan spoke German; had heard him do so on many occasions. But Hochstetter only heard Hogan speak German with that egregious American accent. As much as anything, that probably helped hold Hochstetter at bay in his quest to apprehend the 'most dangerous man in all Germany'. With half the words mispronounced, and his accent screaming 'foreigner', Hogan would never be able to pass as a native—certainly not play the role of master spy Hochstetter believed him to be.

And Klink knew him to be.

Thought he knew.

_Maybe_ thought he knew.

Certainly _suspected_. Deeply suspected.

As often as not Klink thought he knew with certainty until something came up that explained it all away and presented an entirely different picture of Hogan.

Klink shook his head and rubbed his temple. On one hand… On the other hand…

Klink heaved a sigh. Berlin. If they survived this trip—if Hogan survived—maybe Klink would finally, finally, know the answers for certain. Today Stalag 13, tomorrow Berlin…

* * *

"Sir… you have to sleep," Kinch said, almost plaintively.

Hogan turned from his pacing, rubbing his hand through his hair. He gave Kinch a hollow look. "Doesn't seem likely," he said.

Kinch frowned. "Colonel. There's nothing to be done tonight. You have to be sharp tomorrow." _Wind down the rpms, for heaven's sake, Colonel, before you blow a gasket!_

"Yeah. Sure," Hogan said shortly in his get-out-of-here-you're-dismissed tone. "Thanks, Kinch." He turned away, resuming the quick, nervous pacing.

Kinch watched a minute more, then quietly slipped out, closing the door on Colonel Hogan.

* * *

There was a scene missing, Klink decided as the gates of the camp closed behind them. It was the scene where he told Hogan they were being taken to Berlin for questioning by Abwehr and Hogan protested. Vehemently. And invoked the Geneva Convention (a real or made-up section, it didn't matter). Then should have come the scheme or ploy to divert the trip. Or Teppel should have blown up or disappeared or defected. Instead, when he'd been told, Hogan merely acknowledged the information with a grim sort of resignation. That puzzled Klink more than anything.

Watching Major Teppel watch Sergeant Schultz search the prisoners before they left added to the puzzle. Only Schultz as a guard rode with Langenscheidt driving the truck. No guard vehicle followed the open-backed truck. And, ignoring (again) standard policy, no handcuffs on the prisoners. Teppel made no comment. Anyone who watched Schultz search a prisoner—if it could be called that—should have raised an alarmed protest. Teppel made none. He only observed the blatantly slack security without comment.

If Hogan needed an opening to escape the situation with Hochstetter, or Teppel, Klink let it stand clear before him. Klink had not even asked for the usual word-of-honor pledge not to attempt to escape. Hogan had not seemed to notice the omission from their normal routine. Honoring the decision he'd made some time before, Klink had done what he could. The situation was now in Hogan's hands. If Hogan chose not to take the openings, that would tell Klink even more. Well, maybe. With Hogan, he could never be sure.

No, Klink thought with sudden clarity, Hogan would _not_ take the openings to escape. Klink couldn't define to himself exactly how he knew that, but the truth of it was absolute. Somehow, some way, there was something going on here beyond the Hochstetter problem. Something had occurred when Teppel and Hogan had spoken alone. Whatever it was had Hogan almost unnerved, yet by the same token, it was something he would face. Wasn't that the definition of real courage? Klink squinted as Major Teppel made some idle comment about what a pleasant day it was for January. Pleasant for you, Klink thought.

As Teppel's car and the following truck turned on the road toward Berlin, Klink recalled his own suspicion that the Allies had agents more deeply entrenched within Germany than anyone suspected. Teppel? Could Teppel be an Allied agent?

Ack! He was starting to see conspiracies were none existed. That didn't exactly set him apart in Nazi Germany, Klink allowed. No, Hogan was grim because he knew there was no way out of this. And he didn't protest because he knew the alternative was time with the Gestapo. Klink gave a small shiver on Hogan's behalf.

But Teppel did seem rather too pleasant. To Klink.

And rather too nasty to the prisoners. No. Hogan's reaction to Teppel at the first had been honest. Of that much, Klink was certain. But, then, what had they spoken about in the privacy of Hogan's room? There was more to all of this than met the eye. There was. With Hogan there was _always_ more to every situation.

Major Teppel listened to Klink's chatter with an agreeable patience beyond rare amongst his colleagues. He'd agreed Klink could, maybe should, make general.

Teppel had applauded his violin playing with exactingly precise sincerity. A smile crept over Klink's face.

Yes, indeed. Teppel was an Allied agent.

Clasping his hands together joyfully, Klink grinned at the major. Teppel an agent. American, perhaps? One of those German-Americans he'd been reading about? Hmm… Klink abruptly bit his tongue on the question that absurdly leapt to his lips: _Have you ever been to Milwaukee?_ Instead, he decided to test his theory, by testing the major's patience. With a genuinely cheerful smile, Klink launched into a long story about the first time he should have been promoted to general. This could be a fun, fun trip.

* * *

This was not going to be a fun trip, Kinch thought, observing Colonel Hogan closely throughout the long drive. You'd never know the colonel was on the edge. Except, Kinch allowed, that he was quieter than normal. While the others engaged in time-killing chit-chat and tall tales about girls they'd known, Hogan didn't participate. Instead he sat perfectly still, with a turned-inward stare at nothing.

"Hey, Colonel," Carter called to him as the laughter died out over a story about a girl in one of Newkirk's stories who may have been the same girl as in one of LeBeau's stories, or more likely had been made up entirely. "Tell us the one again about that girl that captured you. Goldilocks."

"Oh, righto," Newkirk injected. "Lisel. That there's a good one."

"Ah, yes," Schultz said with a sigh. "Moonlight, edelweiss and undying love…"

Carter laughed. "Yeah, Schultz hasn't heard the shotgun part. Tell him the rest, Colonel."

Kinch saw Hogan start as if jerked out of a dream. Or a nightmare. "Huh?" Hogan glanced around at the men as if surprised to find them there with him. "Uh… maybe later." He turned away again, staring at the floorboards.

Awkwardly, Newkirk tried to patch the uncomfortable silence with another story of his own. Schultz joined in with strained enthusiasm. Kinch knew how they all felt; felt it himself. They all wanted to help, to share the colonel's burden, but couldn't. Colonel Hogan's worries and responsibilities were his alone to bear. Still, he had to try.

Shifting closer to the colonel, Kinch gently nudged Hogan. "You okay, sir?"

Shaking his head, Hogan muttered, "Sure. Fine."

Repressing a small smile at Hogan's mixed message, Kinch quietly prodded, "Sir…"

With a long, sideways glance, Hogan met Kinch's eyes for a moment. Suddenly it was Kinchloe who was scared, scared because he'd never seen his commanding officer quite so close to the ragged edge as he suddenly appeared. Kinch gulped. That Hogan could feel that and yet keep it contained as well as he did spoke volumes about the man's capabilities. Yet… it was undeniably there.

"Colonel…" Kinch said slowly, in a murmur none of the others could overhear, "I know I can't help much on this mission. In Berlin. But let me help now." He hesitated before he went on. "Sir, you've gotta get some of this out… release some of this pressure… Or you're gonna blow." _And make a mistake at a crucial moment._ "Talk to me, sir," Kinch ordered firmly.

Hogan looked sideways up at him for a long time. Kinch saw flickers of anger at Kinch's audacity flash into glimpses of a deep sorrow and even a trace of outright gratitude. At least the panicky fear seemed to have retreated into the mix. Then Hogan's eyes twinkled with his old humor, that cheerful sense of the absurd that carried him, and all of them, through so many times that otherwise would have been nothing but horrifying and grim. A hint of a smile played across the colonel's mouth.

"Always trying to play my Jiminy Cricket, huh?" Hogan asked with a chuckle.

Kinch gave a small laugh and nodded. "Guess so, sir." He shifted on the hard bench and glanced at the others, making sure they were fully engaged and not trying to listen in. "Listen… My mama always said that a burden shared was a burden lightened. She'd say to take it to the Good Lord and let Him carry the load. Now, you never seemed particularly religious, so…"

"Oh, I've been doing some praying lately," Hogan cut in emphatically. "Believe me on that."

With a smile and nod, Kinch went on, "It still might help to share out what's got you so… tense," he chose the word judiciously. "Let me share the burden. At least as much as I can."

Hogan shook his head and gestured out the front of the truck where a road sign came into view—Berlin 200km. "When we're on the other side of that sign. _Leaving_. When we leave. _If_ we leave." He gave a faint shudder. "Right now, the less you know the better."

Now Kinch had to swallow down his own reaction. If. And the colonel was afraid of what they could tell if the Germans really got a chance to work on them. If they got caught. If they broke. If. No, _when_. _"No one holds out forever, not if they live,"_ Hogan had once said of the Gestapo. "Yes, sir," Kinch whispered. "I understand." _You can't tell what you don't know._

Expecting the tight silence to descend again, Kinch was surprised when Hogan began talking again. He spoke low, looking out the front of the truck at the road to Berlin as he did so.

"One thing every man in the camp has in common," Hogan said softly, as though speaking to himself, "is that we all know what it's like to be in a crashing plane. That's how every one of us ended up at Stalag 13." He shrugged, then his look turned even more dark and inward. "But when you're in the pilot's seat, looking out the windshield, you can see the crash coming. You can see the ground rushing at you. You see it coming long before it happens. Maybe you can pull up. Stop it. Maybe not and you just have to fight 'til the moment you slam into the ground."

Kinch listened intently, striving to discern what Hogan was trying to tell him—or himself—as the colonel went on, "I put a plane into the ground once, way back. An experimental plane. Untested. Doing what had never been done before. Taking a huge risk." He cocked a quick grin at Kinch, acknowledging his presence. "It's kind of compelling. That sort of danger. No, it's a lot compelling. If you can keep control."

Now Kinch understood. Nodding, he said, "Like what we do at Stalag 13."

"Right," Hogan said. His grin faded. "But sometimes you can't pull up in time. The controls are gone. Or you made an unrecoverable mistake. You can't bail out. And there's nothing you can do but fight the controls. Watch the crash coming. And hope you survive."

"Did you?" Kinch asked teasingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Hogan chuckled. "So far. That crash wasn't the first. Nor the last." His expression looked distant and lost again.

Kinch held his breath, waiting to see if Colonel Hogan would go on.

Finally, he did. "January '33… Berlin. Just a visit. A tourist. For real. Visiting Rudy and the others. I was…" He paused to calculate, "…about twenty-seven. Cocky kid. Had the world by the tail. Just out of the service and looking to pilot with Pan Am or some other airline. Depression or no, I'd be making piles of money. Great career. Flying." A wistful smile. "Had a girl waiting for me. In Ohio. Sweet and round and soft…" Hogan cleared his throat. "Even had a house picked out. Names for the kids. The American Dream was right in front of me, just waiting for me to grab hold."

"Then Berlin." Hogan punctuated the comment and Kinch wasn't sure he'd say any more, but he did. "January of '33… Then I stayed through February. Then March. And I could suddenly see it coming. I could see the ground rushing up through the windshield and there was no way to pull up."

Kinch stared at him and Hogan met his eyes. Concentrating, Kinch suddenly closed his eyes with a sigh and turned away. "January '33," Kinch said dully, "Hitler became Reich Chancellor. The Nazis took power."

"Kee-rash," Hogan whispered.

"And you couldn't look away," Kinch went on. "Just had to keep fighting the controls."

"That was a bad day in Berlin," Hogan muttered. He glanced again out the front of the truck at the road taking him back to that city. "And now we're in for another."

To be continued...


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

To the eye, Colonel Hogan didn't so much as twitch, but Kinch felt his reaction as the truck turned a corner onto a busy boulevard.

"What is it, sir?" Kinch whispered.

"We just turned onto the Wilhelmstraße," Hogan whispered back. It was a subtle thing, but Kinch could tell the colonel had tensed up again. "Main street Nazi-ville," Hogan said. "We're getting quite a tour."

Kinchloe leaned around Hogan to get a better view out the front. Who'd'a thought a black guy who worked for the phone company in Detroit, Michigan would ever end up in such a place? And as an American spy behind enemy lines, no less. Might just be making history here. Quite an adventure he'd have to tell the grandkids about later. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench. At this particular moment, it was an adventure he'd gladly skip. And one that put the possibility of there ever being grandkids in serious doubt, along with the likelihood he'd still even be breathing this time tomorrow. Casting a sideways glance at the colonel, Kinch knew he wasn't feeling even a tenth of what the colonel was. Hogan looked as taut and grim as Kinch had ever seen him.

With a slight gesture, Hogan drew Kinch's attention to a building on a side street on the left. A nice enough looking building, Kinch thought, except for the swastika flags festooning it, and the black-clothed SS troopers standing rigidly in front. "That's Prinz-Albrecht-Straße 8," Hogan commented hollowly. He stared at the building as though seeing something, or some-when, else. "Gestapo headquarters," he added. Was it Kinch's imagination, or did Hogan shrink back a bit into the shadows of the truck's interior? The others, Schultz included, crowded up close, staring out the front of the truck as they crept along the busy street.

"You could hear screaming coming out of the building as you walked by on the street," Hogan said softly. He didn't notice, but Kinch did, the dark, probing look the other men gave Hogan. Barely audible, Hogan added, "You could hear it inside, too. Louder. Echoing down the corridors. Everyone ignored it, like it was just… just elevator music."

_Background music to a man like Hochstetter,_ Kinch swallowed down the thought. Staring at Gestapo Headquarters, Kinch wondered if the other men felt the same shiver of dread, as though someone had walked over their graves. Certainly the colonel did. The place should look more ominous, Kinch decided. It was almost too ordinary, more like a hotel than the dark core of evil at the heart of the Reich.

A moment later, as the truck moved forward, Colonel Hogan cleared his throat and straightened, as though coming back to the present. He indicated the next building, large and imposing. "That's Luftwaffe headquarters," Hogan said more clearly. "Göring's place. Fat Herman's headquarters."

"I suppose Klink spent some time there," Kinch commented.

"I suppose," Hogan answered distractedly. Then he flicked a quick, questioning, somewhat irritated, glance at Kinch. "Yeah, I suppose he did," Hogan said slowly. Kinch could read his thoughts—all the times Klink had said Hogan was an ordinary looking man, a common sort. Did that impression of Klink's spawn from reality? From a glimpse of someone passing through Luftwaffe headquarters? Or in a crowd on the Wilhelmstraße? Or at a Luftwaffe air field? Had the situation been different, Kinch would have laughed out loud at the thought of Kommandant Klink being haunted, in advance, by Colonel Hogan. No, Hogan wasn't a common sort at all, nor ordinary looking (at least women didn't seem to think so). He was just well-traveled, and apparently well-traveled at the fringes of Kommandant Klink's circle. Would Klink ever put those pieces together? Kinch had to wonder. Or would that very mistaken identity impression Klink had of Hogan serve to save them… again?

Colonel Hogan continued his murmured role as tour guide as the truck turned left on Leipziger Straße toward the Abwehr headquarters. Even Schultz leaned close and asked a question or two. That Hogan seemed so perfectly well acquainted with Berlin didn't strike Schultz as odd, Kinch noted, but then with all the things he'd seen, and pointedly _not_ seen, why would it?

"All right, men," Colonel Hogan said firmly, as the truck ground to a halt in front of the Abwehr's building. As Klink, Teppel, and several Abwehr guards stepped into view at the rear of the truck, Hogan played a dark glance briefly over them before returning attention to the others. "Remember, name, rank and serial number." Without saying the rest aloud, he reminded them of their real, overriding mission. An understanding look passed between them all as they nodded solemnly.

Here we go, Kinch thought, wishing again he wasn't going to be playing such a minor role in this operation. He'd never been more uneasy about a mission, but waiting through it would be worse than facing it head on. This time it all fell to the colonel. Not for the first time. Hopefully, not for the last.

Last to climb down from the truck behind Kinch, Hogan paused and Kinch heard him quip to Teppel/Morrison. "Nice tour of the city, Major. Thanks. When I escape back to England I'll make sure my bombardier's maps are nicely updated so I don't miss dropping a load right on your head."

"Hogan!" Klink exclaimed in horror. Kinch repressed a smile. Trust Colonel Hogan to handle things his own special way. He'd be okay. Hogan would be smart-alecking right up to the moment the noose tightened. Kinch's smile vanished. How he wished that thought hadn't flashed unbidden through his brain.

Teppel (at that moment Kinch couldn't manage to think of him as 'Morrison', not seeing the expression on his face) just chuckled darkly. "If you do not cooperate, Colonel, you may never leave this city again."

"Now, Major…" Klink tried to interject in a reasonable tone. He was locked out of the black staring match between Teppel and Hogan.

The Kommandant glanced back and forth between the two, his horror clear on his face. What passed between Hogan and Teppel was only part of the game, the mission, Kinch reminded himself. But he most sincerely wished Teppel hadn't said that. Not exactly that. For an act, it was just too darned convincing. Kinch's last attempt to catch a final glimpse of the colonel, to give him an encouraging, confident look, were lost to the rough shove of an Abwehr guard. All that remained to Kinchloe was to wait. And to worry.

* * *

Maybe they weren't Gestapo, nor SS, but these Abwehr boys shared their nasty lack of manners, Hogan decided as he was pushed into yet another room decorated with 'ominous' in mind. Morrison sure as hell played the game for real. No doubt about it. Hogan didn't have to fake the glare he stabbed at the brawny Abwehr guards. Their answering glares promised all the trouble he cared to start coming back at him in spades. Decidedly not Morrison's tame guards. Hogan quickly slapped on an agreeable, if unconvincing, smile. If Morrison had any cohorts here at all, that was. Or did he fly solo? Verdammt… that would be rough. Ten years in this. Living the role. Keeping his cover without making an error. Totally alone? No allies? No support team? Whew. No wonder Morrison was nuts.

The Abwehr search more than made up for the casual lack of security from Klink and Schultz. Hogan complied silently, hoping Newkirk had obeyed his orders not to take along any of his usual accessories. What a way to start an operation.

Schultz huffed in as Hogan finished redressing, the sergeant's face red and sweaty. Worn out from trying to keep track of (and protect?) five of his charges at once? Probably. Hogan gave him a reassuring smile to let him know he was all right. This had to be frightening place for Schultz, too. It certainly was for Hogan. He'd lost count already of the number of times he'd felt a flash of doubt as to whether Morrison—_Teppel_—was really on their side and actually in control of the situation. Strip-searched, heavily guarded, locked up and isolated from the others… Hogan sure as hell wasn't in any kind of control here himself. No scheme. No coordination. No chance to go over the flight plan with Morrison. No check list. Just jump in and take off. Zero visibility. Zero ceiling. Flying blind. And someone else at the controls.

Scheiße, but it was good to see Sergeant Schultz! Hogan favored him with a genuinely grateful look as the nastiest of the Abwehr boys snapped at Hogan to hurry up and Schultz clucked a soothing intervention.

With Schultz's presence to tone down the demeanor of the Abwehr guards, Hogan was led—without any more shoving—down into the bowels of the building. Trite description or not, he couldn't help but think of it that way. _Bowels of the building…_ The concrete corridors were dark, slimy, and oppressive. The smell was that of all such places. A sickening combination of filth and fear worked together to create a pit-of-the-gut reaction that couldn't be completely overcome by reassuring himself it was all a game. An act. Really.

One last shove into a dank stone box, and an iron door slammed behind him, punctuating the day's long journey back to Berlin.

Welcome home, Hogan thought ironically, sinking down onto the cot.

* * *

Major Teppel's questioning of the prisoners was, to say the least, interesting, Klink decided as he effusively praised the major's last (utterly futile) interrogation of Colonel Hogan. To say the most, it was bizarre and pointless. Why wasn't he asking the right questions? The ones about those French Underground prisoners? The ones that would let the Luftwaffe High Command keep the Gestapo away from Colonel Hogan? Or even any questions to do with anything of use at all?

"If I may suggest, I would like to take Hogan and Carter and Newkirk to SS headquarters for intensive interrogation," Teppel said as the last prisoner was escorted from the major's office.

"Excellent idea, Major," Klink agreed profusely. So, this was the scheme. Whatever the scheme was. Naturally he'd cooperate, but what a pathetic scheme. How dumb did Major Teppel think he was? No, don't ask! Honestly, though, couldn't Teppel think of anything better? Or did he think Klink would surrender just at the mere mention of the SS? Hmm… well, maybe. Still, an Abwehr officer working with the SS or Gestapo? Never. They hated each other vehemently. Moreover, the Gestapo considered Abwehr to be nothing but a den of anti-Nazi traitors. An Abwehr officer would never work with the SS; would never take their prisoners to them.

"May I also suggest that you remain here and continue questioning the Frenchman and, uh, Sergeant Kinchloe. And that way we will save time," Major Teppel added in a pleasant tone.

Ah ha! Of course… the negro and the little Frenchman would be least likely of the five to be able to move about freely in Berlin. And Klink… a hindrance to be set aside. Kept busy and out of the way. Wait a moment… What happened to the requirement a Luftwaffe officer be present at all interrogations? A trickle of doubt crept over Klink. Maybe Teppel wasn't an Allied agent, and accomplice of Hogan's at all, but a Gestapo plant within Abwehr. In that case, Teppel's suggestion of 'intensive interrogation' for Hogan, Carter, and Newkirk took on a terrifying aura. What did he mean to do to them? What would it take to break them? To break Hogan?

Finally his sworn duty as a German officer fell into line with his private oath to cooperate with Hogan and his schemes. Both vows told Klink he must at least try to intervene on Hogan's behalf with Teppel; try to stop this if, indeed, Teppel wasn't on Hogan's side. Stepping nearer, Klink said slowly in an oh-so-pleasantly threatening tone, "Frankly, Major, I was hoping to see my dear old friend, General Von Stomer at SS headquarters. I haven't seen him for quite a while." There! Let's see how he reacts to that. Teppel wants to play with the SS, let's see if he can trump an SS general.

He could. "General Von Stomer…" Teppel could put the most dire threats in the mildest voice Klink had ever heard. "…some suspicion of treason."

"He's not really a close friend," Klink blurted. Another one? The general really wasn't a close friend. More like a not-too-hostile acquaintance. Klink had no close friends in the SS. Heaven forbid! Some character flaw made it impossible for Klink to truly count himself friends with homicidal maniacs. Blanching, Klink backtracked rapidly. "Actually I hardly know him. I'll just stay here and question the other two." He'd curse himself for being a coward later, Klink thought miserably as Major Teppel strode out of the room.

* * *

The Abwehr cell bore too much resemblance to the Gestapo's cells for Hogan to truly relax. Yet the enforced quiet and solitude gave him time to calm himself. Regroup, Rob, he told himself. This isn't the Gestapo. Morrison isn't even Abwehr. He's an American agent. Everything will go according to the plan. Whatever Morrison's plan is. No one will recognize you here. No one…

He'd slept at least. Well… the screaming woke him a few times. Jerking awake from a dark vortex of indistinct dreams to the pitch black of the cell, he was always baffled for a moment why the faint screaming stopped as soon as he opened his eyes. Then he'd remember. Echoes of the past. The Abwehr corridors were silent save for the click of hobnailed boots passing by in slow rhythm, counting off the minutes and seconds of the long night.

_You could hear it as you passed by on the street. You could hear it louder in the corridors…_

Sitting up, Hogan leaned against the wall, pulling one leg up. For a short time he stopped fighting it and let the flaring red of the past eclipse the stark gray of the present.

"_Glorious, isn't it, Rob?" Rudy's voice carried such pride as they walked through the revitalized streets of Berlin. He looked proudly at the red banners with its bent cross crawling its arms outward like a contorted spider. Hogan hated the sight at once. People on the streets returned Rudy's stiff-armed salute with defiant pride. "I've joined the Party," Rudy announced. "You should too. Stay here. Be a part of all this. Hitler's bringing us a marvelous future. What we should have. What we deserve."_

What you deserve… It was. Glorious and exciting, that is. For those on the top. For the Master Race. For those underneath… Hogan had looked, and once he looked he couldn't make himself look away.

"_I want to reenlist," Robert Hogan, civilian, just returned from a visit to Germany told his former Army Air Corps commanding officer. _

"_Glad to hear it, Hogan," the officer said, but with a dubious look on his face. "But I thought you'd be flying with Pan Am by now. Or for some bush airline off in the wilds of Alaska when you got fed up with routine flights. Weren't you bored with the service? There's still not much for a hotshot pilot to do with the War to End All Wars gone and in the past."_

…_to end all wars… _

"_There's more going on than you think, sir," Hogan said without explanation. "I want—_need_—to be on detached duty to intelligence."_

_His commander's expression went dark. He knew where Hogan had just been. He'd flown biplanes over the German trenches in France. Low, he asked, "You can't possibly think the Krauts…? I mean, not after the way they got smacked down this last time. It's just impossible. They're done for."_

"_Just sign me up again, sir."_

The sliding iron window in the door slid open, then slammed closed. Morrison and a guard stepped in.

Hogan stared at them coolly. "More questions? You already asked my name, rank, and serial number."

"When we get through with you, Colonel Hogan, you will not be quite so insolent." Morrison waved Hogan over away from the door. He shifted into English. "Decker's still at the hotel."

"I hope they got better room service than this joint," Hogan had to toss out. Klink practically set a gourmet table for the prisoners compared to this. Maybe he didn't give the Kommandant enough credit.

Morrison gave a faint chuckle. "Unfortunately, I can't give you special privileges."

Still a little creepy, Hogan thought as he muttered dismissively, "That's all right." That nagging tickle of doubt as to just how Morrison/Teppel had to operate all these years and the things he must have done—_had to do_—twitched at Hogan again. _Things we've all had to do…_ Hogan shoved the doubts aside again with an effort.

"We're moving tomorrow. I've arranged for Carter and Newkirk to go with us," Morrison said.

Tomorrow. Another night. More waiting. More risk Decker will spill everything to the Gestapo. More time stuck doing nothing. Hogan had no choice but to trust Morrison's judgment on the matter, on when the right time it was to make their move. Literally, no choice. A possible hitch occurred to him. "What about Klink?" Hogan asked.

"I've talked him into staying here and continue questioning LeBeau and, uh... Kinchloe," Morrison said.

Well, how about that. Where had Morrison said he was taking the three of them? Exactly one thought occurred to Hogan. Say what you want about Klink he had been pretty darned good about protecting the prisoners and seeing they weren't mistreated. He'd been very solid in his refusal to let Major Hochstetter have custody of Hogan or any of the others, even though Klink was openly and frankly afraid of both the Gestapo and Hochstetter. So how had Morrison/Teppel gotten Klink to cave in on this? "You must have done a pretty good selling job," Hogan commented.

Morrison rolled his eyes. "He's an egomaniac. And a creep."

Hogan gave a faint chuckle. _Enjoyed the 'I should be a general' conversation all the way here, did you?_ "And you hardly know him," he said. Then he asked, "What's the plan?" Hogan hated being in this dark vacuum locked here in this cell. Helpless…

"I'll brief you tomorrow," Morrison said quickly. "I don't want to stay here too long." He turned, rapping on the steel door.

"Morrison…" Hogan began. There was a lot he wanted to say, mostly he wanted to wring Morrison's neck until he told Hogan the verdammte plan. But he settled for, "You got more guts than a Philadelphia lawyer."

Shifting to German, Morrison said with a terrifying grin, "And why not? I am Major Hans Teppel, Military Intelligence." Saluting, he clicked his heels. It was so incredibly Kraut-like Hogan had to repress a shiver.

"Please, don't scare me any more than is absolutely necessary," Hogan said with utter sincerity. This whole thing scared him every way possible. Still. Again. More. On an ongoing basis. The door clanked behind Morrison… no, _Teppel_… Hogan stared grimly at the closed door. Nothing he could do. Just wait. Sitting back down, Hogan gave himself up to worry.

* * *

It was a dreadful selling job, Klink thought as he paced the confines of Teppel's office for the umpteenth time. _I would like to take Hogan to SS headquarters for intensive interrogation…_ Something was direly wrong here. This wasn't a Hogan scheme. It just wasn't. Klink had lived on the baffled, bemused, and manipulated end of Hogan's schemes for quite some time now and was certain he recognized the signature. This wasn't it.

And yet… It could be. He didn't know what to do. Whatever other duty he had, keeping Hogan out of the hands of the SS or Gestapo remained distinctly clear. It fit his duty as a Luftwaffe officer in charge of enemy prisoners of war. It fit his express orders from General Burkhalter, and it fit his personal sensibilities. There were so many things he could do nothing about, but this one thing he could.

And would, Klink decided resolutely, snatching his coat off the hook. And would.

One hand clenching his riding crop, other hand cocked behind his back, Klink marched down the steps of the Abwehr headquarters and moved off briskly down the Berlin streets.

* * *

More waiting. No plan. Or, rather, Morrison had some plan. No exchange of information. No coordinating. Hogan paced for a while, then collapsed down on the cot again. Scheiße. Was this how it was for Klink? Hogan wondered abruptly if this was how the Kommandant felt when he knew Hogan was up to something but didn't know what, and couldn't do anything about it. _"You're a scheming trouble-maker," Klink said once._ Well, not now. Now he was just… Hogan glanced at the closed, locked door… just stuck.

Time to hold still and reflect was a dangerous thing. It gave a person too much time to worry. Too much time to play 'what if'. Too much time to wonder how he had come to be in this place, in this situation. The life-that-hadn't-been tugged at Hogan. He could curse the fates or fortunes that brought this burden of war and danger to his generation, but it would change nothing. Here it was. The job had to be done. Certainly Andrew Carter from Bull Frog, North Dakota never dreamed he'd be sitting in a cell in the military intelligence headquarters of Germany. Before the war, Carter probably didn't even know where the capital of Germany was. Any Germans he knew weren't enemies to be feared and mistrusted, but were neighbors and friends.

Heck, most of the young Americans at Stalag 13 had barely heard of Hitler when they were drawn into the war. The first time they'd ever heard the word 'Gestapo' was when some scary guy in black took them captive. He couldn't blame them. America didn't want to get drawn into another of Europe's wars. But this time was different and inevitably Europe's war became the world's war.

If he hadn't been in Berlin at the start, if he hadn't had the connections and ties he did to this country and its people, would he have gotten as involved as he had, in the way he had? Hogan wondered.

Glancing up toward the iron door, Hogan focused on the footsteps sounding in the corridor. Not the steady click of hobnailed boots pacing off a monotonous beat, this was different step. He tilted his head. An officer, maybe. Klink?

No, the footsteps passed by without pause. Hogan scowled. Until that moment he hadn't realized he expected Klink to appear at any moment. Huh. Even more so, he'd really, really _like_ to see Klink appear. How 'bout that.

_Egomaniac and a creep_… Well, nobody's perfect. The absurdity of feeling defensive of Klink drew a surprised twitch of a smile out of Hogan. Give the guy credit, he wasn't all bad. In a country with more than its share of those who were all bad and then some, Klink was definitely sorta almost okay.

But was he on their side? Did he know what was going on at Stalag 13 and knowingly turn a blind eye? Did he actively cooperate, as Kinchloe suspected? Umm… no. Hogan still couldn't quite go that far. The idea just turned too much of the world onto a very bizarre edge.

Still, he wouldn't mind seeing Klink appear at the door. Just to check on him, so to speak. Hogan's eyes darted briefly around the stone box enclosing him and swallowed down another burst of outright panic. Get a grip, Rob. It's all part of the plan. Really.

* * *

Head down, ignoring everything and everyone around him, Klink turned onto the Wilhelmstraße. Maybe he should have tried to dredge the truth of the situation out of Hogan before heading here. He toyed with the thought even as he absently returned the salutes of the guards outside of Luftwaffe headquarters. No. That would be futile. Hogan would never give him a straight answer. Klink knew of no one else he could approach.

"Klink, you idiot!" General Burkhalter shrieked at him endearingly a few minutes later. "Are you a complete fool?"

"Yes, sir," Klink babbled reflexively before he caught himself. Always agree with generals.

"Shut-up and stop trying to think," Burkhalter shouted with utter sweetness. "I know Teppel. Cooperate with him. Cooperate with Abwehr." He settled back in his posh chair, folding his hands over his chest. Squinting pig-eyed at Klink, Burkhalter added more mildly, merely yelling, "None of us want to admit Hochstetter is right about anything. So let Teppel do his job." His voice rose again. "Now do as you're told and get out of here."

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir," Klink said, saluting repeatedly as he backed out the office door. Always agree with generals. "Yes, sir." _Some day…_

So much for that, Klink thought, struggling to regain his composure a few minutes later back out on the street. He paused, studying the once-familiar Berlin scene. It didn't look too different. No bomb damage evident, at least not here. The city looked, perhaps, a bit more bedraggled, with the people showing more strain. There'd been no air raid last night. Maybe there'd be one tonight. Still, a night on the town in Berlin, music, pretty girls… he should be looking forward to it with anticipation. He didn't. Damn that Hogan! He put a crimp into everything.

Turning back down the street toward the Abwehr headquarters, it occurred to Klink there was one other person he could legitimately question about this situation.

* * *

The cell door creaked open. Sergeant Kinchloe felt a flash of relief at the familiar face of Schultz peering in at him. This last full day and night of worried nothingness were the hardest he'd known yet in this wretched war.

"Come on, Kinch. Raus," Schultz said with a gesture. "It's your turn to be interrogated." The big guy's face looked sadly regretful.

Glancing at his watch, Kinch said, "A little late in the day for that, isn't it Schultz? Or is Major Teppel working overtime?"

Schultz shook his head, gesturing again for Kinchloe to come out of the cell. "Not the major. Colonel Klink. The Kommandant will be questioning you." He rolled his eyes in a very Schultz-like 'it's a crazy war' way.

Curiouser and curiouser, Kinch thought as he walked with Schultz up to an office a few stories up. The military intelligence headquarters was quiet, only a few staff and guards remaining into the evening hours. Catching a glimpse out a window, Kinch saw it was fully dark. Odd, he thought, how even with a wristwatch on it was so easy to lose track stuck in an enclosed windowless cell. How long had they worked on Hogan when he was first shot down? Months? Darn, Kinch realized, it was amazing the colonel could even stand to go down into the tunnels. He was made of stern stuff, their Colonel Hogan. Scared to death to come to Berlin at all, yet here he was, for the sake of duty and of countless others whose lives were also on the line.

Sergeant Kinchloe straightened to attention before the desk at which Kommandant Klink sat.

"Wait outside, Schultz," Klink said. He still hadn't looked directly at Kinchloe.

"Jawohl," Schultz acknowledged, saluting. Kinch flicked a glance at him. Schultz held the salute a long moment, then slowly lowered his hand. Klink remained lost in the papers on his desk. Giving Kinch a faint shrug, Schultz backed out, closing the door behind him.

Kinchloe stood still before the Kommandant, waiting. Then he waited some more. Then he shuffled slightly, wanting to draw Klink's attention but not wanting to be so bold as to cough or speak. Studying Klink more closely Kinchloe noticed he appeared tense and distracted. This waiting wasn't some attempt to soften him up or anything like that. The Kommandant really was lost in thought. Worried, perhaps.

Worried, definitely. The impact of it struck Kinchloe. Only one thing, or one person, could have the Kommandant so concerned.

"Uh… sir?" Kinch ventured softly.

Colonel Klink flinched and glanced up, seeming to notice him for the first time. Clearing his throat, Klink stirred the papers on his desk a minute before speaking. He selected what appeared to be a prepared form of questions and poised a pencil over it.

"Sergeant Kinchloe," Klink began slowly, "you are Colonel Hogan's orderly, are you not?"

Torn between a grin and a scowl, Kinch took his time answering. The Kommandant knew darned well Colonel Hogan didn't have any of the men act as his 'orderly'. He wasn't that kind of officer. Klink was baiting him! Gosh darn it, but Klink—daft, unaware, not-too-bright Klink—almost got him riled on the very first question. Now Kinchloe had to quell a grin for real.

Carefully, he answered, "_Aide_ would be a better word, sir."

Nodding, Klink asked, "Aide-de-camp, you would say?"

"Effectively. Yes, sir," Kinch said.

"Second in command. Confidential assistant," Klink said. "Would that be an accurate English translation of your role on Colonel Hogan's staff?"

Hmmm… Was Klink laying a trap? It felt like it. It surely felt like it. Kinch hesitated while he considered it. The idea that the Kommandant might actually have offered to help them had been Kinch's. Did this work into that idea? Or was Kinchloe flat-out wrong about the Kommandant?

"That would be reasonably accurate, sir" Kinchloe said slowly.

"Now, then," Klink turned suddenly brisk and alert, unlike his distracted attitude until now. "You must answer all these questions and answer them truthfully or you will face dire consequences." He cleared his throat and tapped the pencil on the paper again. The rapid staccato started to irk Kinchloe.

Glancing at the question form (which Kinchloe had already read, upside down and in German), Klink asked forcefully, "What was Colonel Hogan's plan after he got those Underground prisoners from the cooler?"

Patiently, Kinch answered, "Kinchloe, James Ivan, Sergeant, serial number..."

"Enough of that," Klink cut him off. Low, he muttered in German a comment about the limited understanding of those of Sergeant Kinchloe's race. Bristling and sucking in a sharp breath, Kinchloe caught himself. He let his face drop into a mask of bland incomprehension.

Too late.

"Ah, ha!" Klink cried, the triumph in his voice vivid. He jabbed the pencil at Kinchloe like a dagger. "You understand German." He examined Kinchloe with glittering, triumphant eyes. "There's always more than meets the eye with Hogan and his men," Klink commented.

Damn! Klink. Klink had tripped him up just that quick. Merciful God Almighty… The Kommandant wasn't as daft and blind as they all believed.

The Kommandant wasn't as daft and blind as they all believed.

The Kommandant…

…was staring at him with a sharply probing look. Maybe Colonel Hogan could bluff or bully his way out of this slipup, but Kinch didn't think he could pull off one of Hogan's ploys on Klink. At least not in person. Now, if he was on the other end of a phone line pretending to be General Kinchmeier…

He had to stop stalling. "I picked up a little from one of the guards, I guess. Sir," Kinch said. Did that sound convincing?

"Of course, of course," Klink murmured in a much more agreeable tone. "No doubt one of the guards from Berlin." He studied the paper a moment, as he said in a very off-hand sort of way, "Hogan told me once that's how he picked up such a distinct accent, too. Not, of course, that he always speaks that way. A convenient accent… it comes and goes."

Uh oh.

Then Klink surprised Kinchloe again by abruptly dropping that line of questioning. "Now, what was Colonel Hogan's plan after those Underground prisoners were freed from the cooler?" Klink demanded.

"Kinchloe, James Ivan, Sergeant…"

"Enough," Klink snapped. "If you don't cooperate you will face the same consequences as Hogan."

Squinting at the Kommandant, Kinch stared. Unless he was way off base, it struck Kinch that the Kommandant was practically begging him to ask. "What consequences?" Kinchloe ventured.

"Hogan, Newkirk and Carter's answers were unsatisfactory so they are being taken by Major Teppel to SS headquarters in the morning for more intensive interrogation," Klink said. He stared hard at Kinchloe as if trying to say more than he was saying.

Okay, so that's how Morrison worked it to get them out of here. "I see, sir," Kinch said, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Klink's subtly seemed to fail him for a moment. To Kinchloe the Kommandant appeared distressed. Then his expression firmed again. "Now, Sergeant, as Colonel Hogan's second-in-command, your truthful answers to these questions would make that more intensive interrogation of Hogan and the others unnecessary. With your answers I could stop Teppel from taking Hogan to SS headquarters." With pointed emphasis, Klink added, _"Do you understand?"_

His expression was positively imploring. _"Do you understand?"_ My God… Kommandant Klink was flat-out asking him for the means to stop Teppel. Or asking Kinchloe if he _should_ stop Teppel. Yes. That just might be. Colonel Hogan might chastise him for it later, but—gosh darn it!—Kinch was his second-in-command and empowered to make decisions in the colonel's absence.

Making his decision, Kinch told the Kommandant in a quiet, firm voice, "It's all right, sir. Colonel Hogan can handle the… _situation_." He let his emphasis and expression communicate more than his words, hoping as he did the message and its meaning were correctly understood.

"They'll be all right, going with Teppel?" Klink seemed to need the clarification.

"Yes, sir," Kinch said softly. "They'll be all right." _God willing._

Letting out a small sigh, Klink stared down at the papers on the desk for an unseeing moment, then glanced up again. "Sit down, Sergeant. Let us dispose of these questions as quickly as possible."

Invited to sit, Kinch did so, but could not relax. "I can only provide my name, rank, and serial number…"

With a wave of his hand, the kommandant silenced him. Klink read, "Did the senior POW know the Underground prisoners in Stalag 13's cooler were Gestapo prisoners?"

"Kinchloe, James…"

Cutting him off, Klink spoke aloud as he wrote, "Prisoner Kinchloe answered that Colonel Hogan believed the prisoners had been transferred to the custody of the Luftwaffe upon their arrival at Stalag 13."

Kinchloe couldn't stop a grin.

"I will, of course, expect you to sign this tomorrow, after it has been typed up. That probably won't be done until _after_ Major Teppel and Colonel Hogan return." Klink said, staring hard at Kinchloe as he did.

With a smile still flickering across his lips, Kinch answered, "Yes, sir. I do believe that will be acceptable."

Klink nodded. "Very well, then. Did the prisoners involved in the escape attempt realize the Gestapo prisoners were civilians and that aiding such an escape violated civilian and military law governing POWs?" Klink read.

Klink poised his pencil and glanced up at Kinchloe. "Uh…" Kinch hunted for an answer, "We thought they were French officers… uh…"

Nodding along, Klink continued on for him, writing as he did so, "…identified as such by other French POWs in the camp…"

"…escapees from another Luftstalag…"

"…hence the civilian clothing…"

An hour later, when Schultz apologetically locked the cell door behind him, Kinch couldn't help but feel more at ease. Now, if everything went as well for Hogan and Morrison…

* * *

Alone in a darkness he couldn't escape, Hogan worried away the long hours of the night. His thoughts took him in a whirlwind of half-awake not quite dreams.

_Lace curtains wafting and tea poured into cups so dainty he hesitated to touch them. He didn't like tea but didn't dare tell Dad's great-aunt Lily that. Lily… with delicate roses painted on her teapot and the scent of lavender in the air of her flat. Lily, as delicate as the teacups, but also as strong and enduring. Aunt Lily… so properly English it made him smile. Scandalized, Aunt Lily was, at the way her just-met nephew from the Colonies spoke, both the American accent and his naughty jokes. He suspected she actually enjoyed his sense of humor, though she usually just sniffed in half-feigned shock. Yet he'd only been brazen enough ask her for coffee once, a mistake he never repeated. She was proud, though, proud of the distant Yankee kin who'd come back to the 'mother country' to put on an RAF uniform. …never was so much owed by so many to so few… _

_Teacups broken. Just fragments with painted roses. The lace curtains blew in… Aunt Lily had dusted the window sill every day; dusted away the soot from the smokestacks of Coventry's factories…_

_Scorched lace curtains blowing in the empty frame of a shattered window of the only wall still standing…_

…_so much owed…_

Hogan shifted restlessly in the blackness.

_Another time… another place… the hard times starting to turn into glittering prosperity. Once grim defeated people now alight with promise. A new hopefulness in the air. It was infectious. Exciting._

_But, oh God in Heaven… what a promise._

_Deadly. Terrifying._

_Those not good enough, not 'right' enough vanished into the night and the fog. A boy from Uncle Karl's school… A blond, blue-eyed German boy. Just the sort the Nazis liked. Not Jewish. But he was… slow. Not quite right. Disappeared. Then a place was built north of Berlin called Sachsenhausen…_

No, that wasn't right, Hogan concentrated, squinting into the dark cell below Berlin. He had the order wrong. It blurred over the years, the orderly, goose-stepped parade of nightmares. The boy in the summer… July or so.

1933… January, Hitler became Reich Chancellor. February, the Reichstag fire—completely contrived—to give the Nazis emergency powers in the 'crisis'. Sachsenhausen… that was March. A camp called Dachau down by Munich. Buchenwald and Ravensbrück… March, the Enabling Act giving Hitler the powers of a dictator.

The slide came so fast after that… April, the Jews targeted; the Gestapo created. May, books burning…

The Gestapo…

Hogan fought the instinctive surge of fear.

He'd been arrested by the Gestapo in Berlin once before. His men didn't know about that. It was so polite that time. Gentlemanly. So threateningly courteous. _I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding, but we have to check on these allegations. I'm sure you understand, _said the black-clothed man with the cold, dead eyes. But he could hear the screaming echoing down the corridors while the Gestapo officer smiled icily at him and offered him a cigarette while they straightened out the 'misunderstanding'. Surely _he_ couldn't be a spy! For the British? Impossible. For the Americans? Nonsense. Shocking accusations. Obviously untrue, but, you understand, we have to check…

…_like elevator music echoing down the corridors…_

He suspected Rudy had turned him in.

A bad day. It was the last day he'd been in Berlin until this day. 1938, then, and time to get out. The lid of darkness was closing down. 1944, now, and time to get out. The lid of darkness was absolute. But he couldn't leave. Wouldn't. The mission had to be done.

The Gestapo wouldn't be so polite this time.

Hogan rolled over and tried not to think about it; tried to put himself somewhere else. He wanted to run. No… _fly_. Somewhere far away and free…

_The rotary engines of the old biplanes made a crackling hiss. _Hogan smiled at the memory, drifting further away into sleep. The old planes made of wood and fabric… _delicate and strong, like Aunt Lily…_Up among the clouds, cockpit open, you flew as part of the sky.

Hogan sighed and smiled in his sleep at the golden dream. But the place in which he slept intruded and the darkness came again.

_Wheels up in a starry night. Just a sliver of moon. Good flying. Clear air. No icing. A beautiful night to fly…_

…_under other circumstances._

_He could see the flak rise ahead of them in the night, thrown upward from a coastline he could barely make out. Weaving to defeat the flak, he altered course to the target. Already the glow of fires shone on the horizon, still fifty miles away. _

_Have you ever seen a firestorm?_

_British voices on the intercom. Intercepted German voices on the wireless. He didn't translate—none of the RAF boys knew he spoke German. The hows and whys of it might have caused… tension. Keep Granddad's curses silent. Never say those words out loud._

_Now he could see the searchlights, hundreds of them, grouped in cones around the burning city. Flak burst in great clusters of bright stars at the apex of each cone. He had to fly into it. It was the mission._

_An Me.109 dived across his field of view. A raw glimpse of the pilot's white face. A stream of flame. The scream of air rose to a shrill note from the plane's death dive. No, the scream came from his gunner in the back, torn half apart by 50mms from the 109. The blue brilliance of the searchlights turned golden from the flames of the burning city. _

Hogan woke in a cold sweat. How many of the boys in those raids hadn't survived? One of three? Two of three? He'd lost count. How many of the Americans under his command later?

How many of his command at Stalag 13…?

No. They'd been lucky. He'd been lucky. How many times could he test that luck and come out alive on the other side?

* * *

So far, so good, Hogan thought as Decker slumped to the hotel room floor, drugged unconscious by Morrison's loaded ring. Perfect. Morrison really did have a plan and it was sound. Get that bastard Decker down to the ambulance, back to Abwehr headquarters, get him in the Stalag 13 truck, and they might, just might, pull this off. Newkirk and Carter loaded the senseless traitor onto a stretcher and carried him away, their own very obvious cases of nerves serving to steady their commander. He had to hold firm in front of them.

Morrison flipped open the briefcase with the damning information—Hogan's name top of the list. A glance over the lists told Hogan the horror Decker was set to unleash on the underground network in Germany. No matter now. They had it. Morrison's sniper across the street wouldn't be needed to take out Decker. They were going to pull this off. Hogan could almost start breathing again. All the worry was for nothing. Luck was on their side. No problems. No…

Then Morrison opened the hotel room door and the nightmare came again.

Gestapo.

Fear was a thing to be indulged only when time was convenient. Time was not convenient. With the icy cool of years of practice, Hogan shoved everything aside but the needs of the moment. Calmly, he strode out into the room wearing Decker's robe.

Captain Metzger shared the cold deadly eyes of the Gestapo officer so long ago, and every verdammt one since. "Colonel Braun is waiting in the lobby, sir, to escort you to General Schellenburg," Metzger said. Schellenburg… Schellenburg… Hogan probed his memory. He knew the name because he knew the name of every general in Germany, particularly those in the Gestapo, but he decided he had never personally seen Schellenburg.

Braun, though… Too common a name to be certain. He knew, or had met, several 'Brauns' at various points over the years. There'd been a captain in the Gestapo named Braun, in—what?—'36 or '37? A passing encounter at some Nazi shindig Hogan was scouting. No… it was Braun's wife. There'd been drinking and dancing with her while the Gestapo officer and his lot smoked and toasted the inevitable conquests of their glorious Reich. Arrogant Schweinekerls. Hogan had pried several tidbits of information from the lonely Frau Braun. Had he met the captain? Yes. A handshake, a brief introduction. Braun's suspicious eyes on him from across the room . What were the odds this was that Braun?

"Very good," Hogan told Metzger coolly. "Tell him I'll be down as soon as I dress."

"My orders were to accompany you," Metzger insisted, ingrained Gestapo suspicion in his voice.

Firmly, Hogan countered, "Tell the colonel I'll be down as soon as I dress."

* * *

Only when the door had shut did Hogan give into the near-panic kept barely contained. "Ever seen a grown man faint? Watch."

"We got trouble," Morrison said needlessly. Morrison was insane. Absolutely, completely, barking mad, off the deep end insane.

"No kidding," Hogan said, his voice rising. "He thinks I'm Decker." In the span of a moment the mission had good from smooth to the edge of crash and burn disaster.

"You're gonna have to go down and meet Colonel Braun," Morrison said. "I'll get you away from him as soon as I can."

How? "Suppose you get tied up. Suppose you meet a girl or something?" Hogan demanded. Suppose Braun knows Decker? Suppose Braun knows _me_?

"You got any better ideas?" Morrison asked.

"Yeah," Hogan said, talking rapidly because he had no better idea. "I'm gonna go up to the roof and fly away, and I don't need a plane." That was a better idea. It was the idea he'd had since the moment Morrison showed up.

"There's no other way."

Hogan's mind raced as he ran through the options. Zero. "Does the general, or this Kraut colonel, know Decker by sight?" Hogan asked. Or me?

"I'm not sure."

"That's great. That. Is. Great. If they know him, they arrest me in the lobby, hold a trial right there and shoot me," Hogan said, letting the nervous fear flow out. "Or if I'm lucky and I get past the killers in the lobby, I walk out as Decker, in his clothes, with his briefcase. Those two beauties working on the car across the street have orders not to miss. I'm a loser either way." Never should have come back to this city. Not for anything.

Softly, Morrison said, "I know."

"I'm up the creek. I don't have a boat. I don't have a paddle. I don't even have a creek." _My God, I sound like Klink. _

"Take it easy." Morrison tried to sooth him. "I'll take care of them."

"Before they take care of me?" _Before which of them takes care of me? Scheiße. _

"Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't fire."

_Don't worry. _Sure. Absolutely. What on earth was there to worry about? "Keep talking, Morrison. My pulse may start again."

"Good-bye," Morrison said solemnly. "For the last time."

"Oh, I hope not," Hogan countered emphatically, but without belief.

* * *

Once Morrison left the hotel room, Hogan quickly dressed in Decker's clothes. Needing to run, wanting to escape, instead Hogan ran through every possibility again and again. _Up the creek. Fly away and don't need a plane._

He flipped open Decker's briefcase again and glanced through the papers. His name… yes, top of the list. His men… Hmm… suspicion by Decker that Klink was involved. Hogan managed a faint chuckle. Another list the Kommandant would really, really like to see destroyed.

More names… The Underground in Hammelburg. The vet, Oscar Schnitzer. Their French contacts… Marie Louise Monet, code name Tiger. So that was her name. Well, at least one good thing came of this. If he succeeded. If he failed, his Tiger… _Marie…_ would die an ugly death right along side him. Hogan gulped.

Steadying down, Hogan reached for the control that carried him through countless tight situations before. Tighter situations than this, he told himself, squinting out the window toward Morrison's sniper. He'd faced situations as tough as this before. Tougher. Tighter. Why was this one pushing him to the edge?

Ack! It was this place, this city. It was Morrison. Everything Morrison was, everything Morrison had had to do… it all hit too close, too hard.

Hogan got a handle on himself again. He'd faced worse, he silently chanted. Everything would work out this time too. The sniper wouldn't shoot him. The Gestapo wouldn't shoot him. It wouldn't be _that_ Braun…

* * *

It was that Braun.

Hogan's pulse threatened to stop again as he stepped off the elevator and caught a glimpse of Colonel Braun's profile. Hogan froze outside the elevator door. He wanted an immediate escape, for the problem of who recognized who had suddenly and terrifyingly compounded. Even if he didn't know Decker by sight, Braun might recognize Hogan from years back. Which way was out? No time. No escape. Captain Metzger spotted him at once.

"Colonel, it is Herr Decker."

With a fatalistic sigh and immense reluctance, Hogan approached. Futilely, he tried to keep his head down; not make eye contact.

"Herr Decker, Colonel Braun," the older Gestapo agent said. "A very great pleasure. Heil Hitler."

Waving his hand absently in the Nazi salute, Hogan said, "Colonel Braun."

Braun squinted at him. "Uh... have we met before?"

So he didn't know Decker on sight. But he had the recognition of Hogan. Had he put together the pieces? "You tell me," Hogan chanced.

Studying him a moment more, Braun finally said, "No, I think not."

"Good," Hogan blurted. "I mean it's always good to meeting new friends." Some spy he was! Morrison must be wondering how he'd managed to operate this long.

Through some fumblingly nervous sleight-of-hand, Hogan got out to the sidewalk without the briefcase, without the deadly target that would have Morrison's sniper take him. Braun, hot on his heels, hurried through the door behind him, waving the briefcase.

_Fire_, Hogan silently ordered. _Shoot now. _Why didn't they shoot? Not a clear line of fire? Gestapo Colonel Braun had the condemning briefcase right in his hands… He stared at Hogan a new, terrifying way.

"I remember you now," Braun announced loudly as the hotel door swung shut behind him. He reached toward a pocket as he strode toward Hogan. Reaching for a gun? Hogan was unarmed. Why didn't they shoot? Hogan shifted further toward one side. "You're not Decker," Braun announced. "There were some allegations you were a sp…"

Crack!

Salvation in a tiny piece of lead. Hard to say whose heart stopped first on the sniper's shot, Hogan's or Braun's. Hogan's restarted. Braun's didn't.

Then Morrison appeared. They grabbed the briefcase. The ambulance raced away.

Hogan let out a long breath he'd been holding for… forever, it seemed.

"Good God," Hogan muttered, then recited a list of Granddad's most vehement German curses followed up by the best-of-the-RAF collection in English. It was somewhat of a relief.

Morrison (that lunatic!) laughed loudly when Hogan finally wound down. "Don't know what you're so upset about. I thought it all went rather well."

Hogan slumped against the doorpost of the ambulance and jabbed an angry look at Morrison. "Morrison… Teppel… whoever you are… You are absolutely nuts."

Throwing Hogan a broad grin, Morrison answered with a hearty chuckle, "Funny, that's exactly what London said about you." Morrison turned a corner, checked in his rear view mirrors for signs of pursuit, then visibly relaxed. "Looks like we're okay so far." Matter of factly, he added, "Listen, we got some time to kill before I turn you back over to Klink. Want to stop somewhere and grab a beer? It's not Milwaukee's finest, but I hear the Krauts do some pretty good brewing themselves."

Hogan just glared at him.

To be continued...


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Klink realized his horrendous error too late.

Were he one to curse, he would have done so with particular vigor as he stood in the lightly falling snow glowering at the Stalag 13 truck. The prisoners and Schultz were already inside, the canvas curtains at front and back both lowered against the cold as January reasserted itself. Corporal Langenscheidt stood beside the truck, waiting with nervous impatience for Klink to decide his next course of action.

Finally Klink settled on an American curse he'd heard from one of the prisoners—the skinny boy, Carter. "Goll ding it!" Klink muttered sternly, hoping the words were sufficiently strong to cover the situation. It was a disaster. An utter disaster.

His staff car was still at Stalag 13. He'd ridden here with Major Teppel in his auto. Teppel was remaining in Berlin. Klink had to ride back in the truck.

Glaring at Langenscheidt, Klink climbed into the front seat of the truck, gesturing angrily for them to be off. He wanted to be out of this city. No doubt the prisoners did as well. Klink turned up his fur collar and hunched down in the seat, tipping his cap brim down to keep the light flakes from falling onto his face.

Berlin disappeared behind them as night fell. Despite the low cloud cover and snow, the air raid sirens began to wail across Berlin. Hmph. If the British bombers dropped their bombs at all in this weather, it would be random, untargeted destruction. Klink turned grim at the thought. Much like London and other cities both here and in England suffered. All for what? Klink sighed softly, earning an inquisitive glance from Corporal Langenscheidt. Scowling at him, Klink huddled down further in the seat, turning to stare out at the road. He yawned broadly, blinking rapidly. It wasn't cold. If anything it was too warm, with the truck's heater blowing full strength. Was it warm in back, too? Were they all asleep? Or were they plotting their escape under cover of darkness with the certainly-sleeping Schultz their only guard. Escape… hardly. Sometimes he thought he'd never be rid of them. Klink yawned again. So much to worry about, yet nothing to worry about. Somehow everything always managed to work out. Another yawn. The pattern of the snowflakes in the air raid-shielded headlights made a pretty, soft, white, blossoming outwards…

* * *

A bump jarred Sergeant Kinchloe awake. In the dim interior of the truck, he strained to make out the shapes of the others. Those he discerned made him grin. Schultz… he was easy to spot—the large, snoring mountain. LeBeau huddled against the big German, also asleep. Such a picture that made. Newkirk and Carter leaned against each other like some bizarre pair of opposites irresistibly drawn toward each other. In the normal world they'd never have met, never have been friends, but in the here and now… Kinch smiled softly. The same counted for him, even more so.

Only one didn't sleep, Kinch noted with a complete lack of surprise. Colonel Hogan sat stretched out on top of the wooden locker containing their drugged traitor. Hitching himself up, taking care not to wake the others, Kinch moved near Hogan.

"Want me to keep watch a while, sir?" Kinch whispered. "So you can get some sleep."

Colonel Hogan just shook his head, still staring off into the darkness. "No. Go back to sleep. I'm fine," he said shortly.

Kinch settled in nearer the colonel. "I'm not sleepy. Had more than enough these past couple days."

Hogan chuckled. "Same here."

"I figured you'd have been up worrying, rather than catching up on sack time," Kinch commented.

"Yeah, well, a lot of that, too," Hogan agreed. "This whole thing with Decker, Morrison… Berlin." He cut himself off, shaking his head.

"Yes, sir. You know, we've been in a lot of tight spots but I've never seen you that…" Kinch paused to choose his phrasing, "…_affected_ by anything we've done before. We are on the other side of that sign, sir. Leaving Berlin. Leaving Berlin alive," Kinch added, reminding the colonel that he'd promised to tell Kinch why this operation had him so troubled once they were out of Berlin.

Hogan nodded slowly, acknowledging Kinch's gentle prodding. "I've been scared..."

"Who hasn't?"

With a small smile, Hogan continued, "…lots of times, but…" He sighed. "Berlin. You know the history…"

"Do I?" Kinch asked.

Hogan met Kinch's eyes briefly. "Not really," Hogan said. "And just as well." He hesitated, then filled in the story of his arrest by the Gestapo in 1938 and the tight squeeze getting out.

Kinch listened wide-eyed, the implications of the danger of Colonel Hogan being in Berlin becoming even more vivid. "You mean the Gestapo in Berlin has a record of you? How has that not come up…?"

Hogan gave a humorless laugh. "Fake name and a German passport. They'd have to know which files to compare—fingerprints, photos. Fortunately the Luftwaffe keeps those kinds of files on POWs to themselves and the Gestapo—Hochstetter in particular—has never made the connection. Until Braun at the hotel. He recognized me. He would have put the pieces together. Five more seconds and I'd have been done for."

"My God," Kinch murmured as actual prayer.

"Copy that," Hogan agreed. "But Braun's dead and Metzger doesn't know, and Decker… Knock on wood," Hogan said, rapping lightly on the wooden box containing Decker, "will be joining Braun in hell soon."

Colonel Hogan seldom sounded as cold blooded as he did at that moment, Kinch considered. Yet he couldn't argue with the sentiments, or the hope for Decker's justly earned deserts.

"But it was more," Hogan went on answering Kinch's original question. "It was Morrison. He told me he'd been ordered to give up his U.S. citizenship so the Germans would take him. That really hit me hard." Hogan turned to face Kinch, a wistful expression on his face. "You have no idea how close I came to giving up my citizenship. _Against_ orders."

"For the Germans?" Kinch asked in shock. He knew the colonel had been in deep—still was—but how close had he come to being an agent like Morrison? The thought of Colonel Hogan living the life Morrison must have lived these past ten years… Yes, the thought would be enough to scare the dickens out of anyone.

Grimacing, Hogan said, "Hell, no. The Germans would never have accepted me like they did Morrison. My background wouldn't stand up to their scrutiny like his. Nope, it was for the British."

Kinch shook his head. "I don't follow you, sir. I thought there was an arrangement between our government and the British so those of you who flew in the RAF didn't have to give up your U.S. citizenship."

"That's true," Hogan said. "Later." He cast a sideways glance at Kinch. "I came back home from Germany for the last time in '38. Barely got out," he amended, "before everything clamped down tight." Hogan let out a heavy sigh and stared away from Kinch into the darkness. "So I was back home, making reports on the build-up of the Luftwaffe… and everything else I'd seen, and just nothing was happening." Kinch could hear the frustrated disgust in Hogan's voice, still vivid after all these year and the U.S.'s eventual, very decisive, entry into the war. "But I'd done what I could, done my part. Then February of 1939…" Hogan glanced at Kinch. "Do you remember it?"

Kinch just squinted back. Nothing dramatic in the deadly course of events leapt out at him from that time. But the colonel had lived in a different world, seen different things.

"I was stationed in the East at that time," Hogan went on. "Reporting to the Pentagon--well, the Pentagon's predecessor, but you know what I mean--but based out of Mitchell. It was kind of nice, actually, getting to spend some time in Bridgeport with the family there, and in New York. Weekends with girls in the Catskills…" He shrugged. "It was a good time and, I guess, it was easy to forget about what was going on over here. Or maybe I wanted to forget about it. No, I _did_ want to forget about it. But then I was in New York in February. February 20th of '39." Hogan's voice turned grim, and even in the dark Kinch could tell his face had gone tautly serious.

"February 20, 1939," Hogan repeated. "Not a date that means much of anything to most people. It doesn't exactly live in infamy. I went to Madison Square Garden that night. It was packed. Twenty thousand people." Hogan seemed to have trouble saying the next part. "It was a rally for the German-American Bund, Das Amerikadeutscher Bund. Nazi flags and Nazi speeches to a packed crowd right there in the United States of America. Cheering. Waving that verdammte swastika around." He broke off and was silent a moment. "I left halfway through. I'd seen what was happening in Germany. To see and hear that same evil right in New York City…"

Hogan glanced over at Kinch. "I went and sat half the night in a deli on the Lower East Side, thinking. I was at the Pentagon the next day. I was being threatened with a court martial for insubordination the day after. By the end of the week I had resigned my commission and was on my way to England."

Kinch stayed still, thinking about what Hogan had just told him. Turning his head, Hogan played a sideways look over Kinch. "Lots of things about Morrison hit me in lots of ways. One I remembered later, sitting in that Abwehr cell… the deli I sat in that night fuming over the Bund and the Nazis… Maybe I'm making it up in my own head after all these years, but I think that deli was run by immigrants, refugees, really, who'd gotten out of Germany a couple years earlier. And I think their name was 'Morrison'."

* * *

Klink wasn't certain what had awoken him. Perhaps a bump in the road, or perhaps the indistinct murmur of voices. Part of a dream, he thought at first. No, Hogan's voice. Ah, part of a nightmare. If he shifted slightly, tilting his head back nearer a gap in the canvas cover of the truck, he could hear fragments of the whispered conversation more clearly.

"…Morrison… Milwaukee ten years earlier…"

"…Decker… Same bastards…"

Klink squinted, trying to figure out what they were talking about. Morrison. Decker. The names meant nothing to him. Were they talking about something distant? Or about recent events? For some reason, maybe the tone, Klink had to think they were talking about this trip to Berlin.

"…after we got Decker… told Morrison about our problem with Hochstetter and those Underground prisoners… had no idea… London hadn't told…. Said he'd fix…"

"…already done… Klink…"

On hearing his name, Klink came to alert. He strained back into an uncomfortable pose to get closer to the opening in the canvas flap. Langenscheidt gave him a puzzled look. Klink waved his hand impatiently at him to pay attention to his driving.

"…the oddest interrogation session with the Kommandant," Sergeant Kinchloe was saying. Klink frowned in concentration. "If you could call it that. I gotta say, sir, it sure seemed again like the Kommandant was on our side, trying to help us." Klink listened with impatience as Kinchloe repeated the details of the session he'd had with Klink to Colonel Hogan.

"Yeah…" Hogan finally answered, the word drawn out, disbelief evident in his tone. "But that doesn't mean 'complicity', like Hochstetter said once. 'Stupidity' still covers it." Klink grimaced at the words, fighting the urge to break into the conversation. Hogan went on. "Klink isn't really stupid, just locked in a certain mindset. He knows if Hochstetter gets us, for anything, he's done-for too. It's as simple as that. He has to protect us to protect himself. He wasn't aiding and abetting the Allied cause in that session with you. He was aiding and abetting priority number one: Himself."

"But…" Kinchloe started.

"Listen," Hogan's voice a touch louder in a commanding tone. "Even if Klink has figured out what's going on and is truly and honestly willing to turn, to work on our side… I don't want to know it."

"Why not?"

_Yes,_ Klink echoed silently. _Why not?_

"Because," Hogan answered them both, "Right now Kommandant Klink is exactly what we need him to be. He has a reputation as the toughest Kommandant in all of Germany with no escapes, a clean service record that's just unimpressive enough to not be threatening to the higher-ups…" Klink scowled at that even as he had to admit the truth of it. "…and a history of loyalty with the High Command.

"On top of which," Hogan went on, obviously having cut off an objection from Kinchloe, "with all that, Klink's still basically a decent guy. Most of the Luftwaffe POW camp Kommandants do follow the Geneva Convention, but Klink goes above and beyond with it. Even though I badger him about it pretty unmercifully, I know he uses his black market connections to get better rations for the prisoners. And I know he transfers out guards who lean toward the trigger-happy side of things. And he keeps on guards like Schultz."

Klink couldn't hear their chuckles through the canvas, but knew that's what had filled the gap in the conversation. Schultz's snores he could hear clearly enough. Then the tones dropped and the conversation returned to indistinct whispers. Klink stopped straining to listen, settling back into a more comfortable position and pondering what he'd just heard. So he was doing what they wanted. Complicity and stupidity working together. Well, then… he'd continue on being the best POW stalag commander in all of Germany with the most bizarre goings-on of any stalag taking place right beneath his stupidly complicit nose. It was strangely comforting to think he could have it both ways. He could be loyal to his country and to his oath as a German officer, yet still aid the enemies he knew were fighting the evil infesting his country. He wasn't a traitor. He didn't have to take that drastic step, yet could still keep his conscience clear.

* * *

"Major Teppel was kind enough to send this transcript of the interrogation in Berlin," Klink said. Had Hogan really had a hand in this interrogation transcript? Had there really been an interrogation when Teppel and Hogan left Abwehr headquarters that day? Or some other shenanigans? Some of the answers sounded very much like Hogan, others distinctly did not.

"Did he spell my name right?" Hogan asked eagerly, leaning over to see the papers. Klink yanked the folder back. Could he never be serious? Didn't he realize there were life and death issues at stake? And even more important issues than that?

Reading, Klink said, "Question to Colonel Hogan: What are the conditions at Stalag 13? Are you well treated? Answer by Hogan: Colonel Klink is a very humane commandant who tries to make prison life bearable." He looked up at Hogan with dismay. "Hogan, did you say that?" Klink asked.

"Yes, I did, sir. It has a nice sound to it," Hogan said promptly.

_A 'nice sound' to the Red Cross and the Protecting Power, and in letters home, but not to my superiors!_ "How dare you undermine me in Berlin?" Klink demanded. _And after all I went through to help you! I did not enjoy this trip to Berlin._

"Well, I thought that's what you want…" Hogan started.

Klink cut him off. " 'Humane commandant', 'prison life bearable'… Are you trying to destroy my career? Do you want me to be a colonel forever?" Klink asked. After what he'd heard in the truck this sort of back-stabbing was unexpected. A normal enemy POW would have no interest in the prison kommandant's career other than to attempt to destroy it. The irony of his question was not entirely lost on Klink.

"I'm sorry, sir." Hogan didn't sound the least bit contrite.

"You're not going to get away with that," he said, shaking his finger in Hogan's face. "I promise."

"Look, I know you're a rat, and you know you're a rat," Hogan said, finally getting into the spirit of the exchange.

"Then why didn't you say so?" _If you want me to be kommandant of the 'toughest POW camp in all of Germany' you have a job to do too._

"Well, I thought it was our secret," Hogan said innocently.

Frustrated into wordlessness, Klink could only clench his fist and wished he weren't such a 'humane commandant'. Sometimes making Hogan's life a little unbearable would feel soooo good.

"Disssss-missssed," Klink snapped.

Hogan turned to go, then paused. "So, uh… You hear anything else about those interrogations?" he asked.

Hmph! It would be a pleasure to keep Hogan in suspense longer, though, no doubt he knew the answer already from the end of barracks confinement and decreased number of guards on duty. "Yes. The Luftwaffe High Command has rejected Major Hochstetter's demands you be turned over to the Gestapo. They decided your foolish attempt to free those Underground prisoners was not an act of espionage, but a legitimate—well, criminal—action that fell within the acceptable limits of the Geneva Convention." He met Hogan's eyes with a no-joking look. "You were lucky this time."

Hogan let out a small sigh of relief that struck Klink as utterly sincere. "Yes, sir," he said, more to himself than to Klink. "Very lucky."

Klink frowned. There was more to that comment than just the Hochstetter situation. What had happened in Berlin? Would he ever know?

"Very lucky," Klink echoed. "I have also been authorized to punish you with up to thirty days in the cooler," he added. Hogan's lack of reaction said more than any overt reaction. He just waited to see what Klink would say next. Klink kept him waiting a moment more, enjoying the tiny bit of retaliation. "So bear that in mind the next time you decide to tangle with Major Hochstetter," Klink told him firmly.

With a twitch of a smile, Hogan said, "Yes, sir. Thank you, Kommandant. Hopefully there won't be a 'next time'."

_Hopefully_, Klink thought. _But I wouldn't bet on it. _With sudden clarity, he realized one of those two wouldn't make it to the end of this war.

To be continued...


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

**January 12, 1944**

"It means _what?!_" Klink exclaimed. Donnerwetter! Hogan was lying; playing him for a fool (again).

Hogan shrugged innocently. "It's an acronym."

Klink squinted. "Not an American idiom, then?"

"Nope, an acronym," Hogan repeated, "like FLAK."

"Ah, yes," Klink said. "So each of the letters means…?"

Hogan said, "'Snafu' means Situation Normal All Fuc.."

"_Don't_—" Klink waved his hand to cut him off. "—say that part again."

Hogan grinned and moved another chess piece forward. "You can change it to 'fouled up' if it offends your delicate sensibilities."

Scowling at Hogan sternly, Klink refocused on the chessboard. "Hmph! 'S.N.A.F.U.' I should add it to the camp stationery."

"It would make a great motto," Hogan agreed in a chipper tone, obviously pleased with Klink's uncharacteristic good humor. Hogan stood, stretching as Klink studied the chessboard, trying to decipher Hogan's latest maze. Klink always managed to find his way through to victory. The challenge for him had become to find a checkmate a move or two sooner than Hogan planned. It had become a game within a game.

Klink only half-noticed Hogan wandering the office. Instead of poking through the papers on Klink's desk, or getting into the filing cabinet, Hogan seemed to have taken a genuine evening off from the scheming troublemaker business. He idly studied each of the photos on the wall.

"You're in this picture?" Hogan asked, leaning close. It was Klink's flight school graduation photo.

Glancing up, Klink said, "Yes. Back row, third from the left."

"Hmm…" Hogan said, peering. "Not bad looking. You know, in an excessively 'Master Race' sort of way."

"Hmph," was Klink's only response, refusing to rise to the bait. He had never made a 'Master Race' comment about himself and Hogan knew it.

Klink caught a glimpse of Hogan's teasing grin at him as he turned back to study the picture. "The man next to you, on the left, looks a bit familiar. Is that the Blue Baron?"

Having to bite back a reaction, Klink answered, "No, he was still in the hospital when that picture was taken." He would have blushed except that Hogan had never teased him about Klink's flying mistake which permanently injured the now-famous Blue Baron. After a moment's hesitation, Klink added, "That's Hans Kronman beside me."

"Oh," Hogan said with a thoughtful tone, "Hansie Kronman. Yeah, your good buddy who was out to knock off Hitler."

"Sssshhh!" Klink hissed loudly, all thought of the chess match fleeing his mind. He scanned around the office rapidly, even though he knew they were alone. And the bugs may not all lead where he thought they did. "It was all a mistake, he really wasn't planning any such thing, not that the Gestapo makes mistakes…" Klink rapped out all in a single breath.

"I still have the list, Klink," Hogan cut in, but said it lightly, not threateningly. Well, not too terribly threateningly, Klink decided. Glancing at Hogan, Klink frowned. Hogan gave him a measuring look. "Kronman's conspiracy was for real," Hogan said, still holding Klink's eyes.

"How do you know…" Klink started, then chopped off the question. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Slowly, Hogan crossed back to the chessboard and sat down. Klink tried to refocus on the game but he'd completely lost track of where they were in it.

"Interesting," Hogan commented, staring at the board. Did he mean the game? Or this dangerous turn of conversation? "Interesting," Hogan repeated, "that list… Names of those Kronman thought most likely to turn against the Führer. Now, if I recall, the top name on that list…"

"I concede," Klink snapped. He reached out quickly and knocked his king over on its side. "You win this match."

It was a curious look Hogan gave him. Klink could almost hear the gears turning. Rising rapidly to his feet, Klink was about to dismiss Hogan when a knock sounded at the door.

Schultz peeked in. "Sorry to disturb you Herr Kommandant," Schultz said, "but you have a visitor. He opened the door wider and the visiting officer stepped in briskly.

"Major Teppel!"

* * *

…and in walked the very definition of 'snafu', Hogan thought, more startled at seeing Teppel/Morrison than Klink could possibly be. All sorts of crawly uncomfortable sensations started a battle within Hogan, and it was a definite struggle not to overtly react when Teppel's (Morrison's?) eyes met his. Which role was he in now? There was something in Morrison's eyes… a message of some sort, but Hogan couldn't read it. Something definitely was wrong, though. Situation normal…

Klink and Teppel exchanged pleasantries. Did Klink seem forced and artificial in his greetings? Well… yeah. But, then he always did. Hogan just stood quietly, hat clenched in his hands, wishing Klink would just dismiss him so he could get out of here and listen in from a safe—safer—distance. But, then, it was absolutely no mystery to anyone in this room—whatever they thought the reasons—who was the reason Teppel/Morrison had showed up at Stalag 13 again.

"Just passing through, Major?" Klink asked in a way Hogan noted made it sound more like a suggestion than a question.

"Yes," Teppel said. "Just a brief visit. Though it's a pleasure to see you again, Kommandant. I so enjoyed our visits together."

"Yes, yes," Klink not-quite babbled. Why did Klink sound so nervous? Hadn't he and the Abwehr major been all buddy-buddy? Or so Klink thought. "It's been too long." It hadn't even been two weeks, Hogan thought. Not nearly long enough. Klink pulled the door open a little wider. "Such a shame you can't stay longer."

Both Hogan's and Teppel's eyes widened at Klink so-very-unsubtle attempt to get the major to leave. A very Morrison-like smile twitched at the corners of Teppel/Morrison's mouth. "So, you've heard, Kommandant."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Klink reached full babble. He stopped cold. "Yes," he admitted flatly.

"Well, I haven't," Hogan couldn't stop himself from inserting, immediately cursing himself for saying anything at all.

Major Teppel aimed an icy expression at Hogan. Pure Abwehr Kraut. Hogan held the look with a dark one of his own. Still playing the game—and Hogan hoped like hell it was still a game. And that he knew which game. "Ah… Colonel Hogan," Teppel (or was it Morrison?) said slowly, giving him an up and down examination that scared Hogan every way possible. What had gone wrong? And what had Klink heard to put him into such a tizzy?

Turning back to Klink, Teppel said, "I'm afraid my visit is business, not pleasure, Kommandant. Colonel Hogan is the reason I've come here." He gave Klink that terrifying up and down examination. "Though question of _your_ involvement now merits examination, too."

What?? Hogan silently shouted. Klink looked like he could fly right out of here without a plane, himself.

"Now, Major," Klink said, his voice becoming firm in his best deny-everything tone. "I'm a loyal German officer—" Hogan noticed Klink shifted to block view of the group photograph showing Klink and Hans Kronman side-by-side. "—My record is clear. You can ask anyone."

"Including your 'friend' at the Air Ministry who obviously informed you about the arrests?" Teppel cocked a questioning look at Klink.

Arrests? Hogan's eyes darted from one to the other and back again. What hadn't he heard? What hadn't London heard? Or told? Had Robin Hood/Decker spilled some info before they got to him? Or had Teppel been in trouble with the Gestapo over the incident? They did know Teppel was on the scene when Decker disappeared and the Gestapo colonel was killed. Or—thought to freeze the blood—was Morrison _really_ Teppel?

"Of course I have friends at the Air Ministry," Klink said gruffly, then immediately backtracked. "Colleagues, associates… not friends. But, yes, one told me about the arrests that took place today within Abwehr." He straightened and appeared positively fierce. "Now I'm going to call my guards in here to detain you and then I'm calling the Gestapo."

Hogan's mouth dropped open. This was unexpected.

But Teppel/Morrison chuckled disarmingly. "Oh, Kommandant. You misunderstand the situation. Not everyone in Abwehr is being arrested. I am here, in fact, trying to track down some of the conspirators who escaped the net and fled." His eyes narrowed and he fixed again on Hogan. A shiver ran down his spine. "It seems a number of the traitors within Abwehr were actually American agents—German-Americans from Milwaukee who'd infiltrated years ago. And who should happen to be in Berlin, at Abwehr headquarters, little more than a week before this all broke apart than an American officer who already has deep suspicions attached to him. And who probably has Underground contacts."

Hogan forgot to breathe. He stared at Teppel. Klink stared at Hogan.

"You're under arrest, Colonel Hogan," Teppel announced coolly, drawing his sidearm.

Stunned beyond stunned, Hogan still just stared. Propeller about to impact ground. A split-second view out the cockpit windshield of the final moment before the crash. He felt Klink's look nudging at him to say something, do something, to turn around this unimaginable situation. What? What could he say when he didn't know what was going on? Or even who he was dealing with? Were his men listening in on the coffeepot? Probably not. It was just an evening of chess with the Kommandant. Nothing important. Might not even know Teppel had entered the camp. Where was the nearest tunnel entrance? No. Couldn't risk exposing the whole operation. Would Teppel shoot him?

Was it Teppel? Or was it Morrison? Hogan stared at the barrel of the gun. And which one would pull the trigger if he moved? Which one could he trust?

Klink?

Klink.

Slamming his hand down hard on the desk, Klink made both Teppel and Hogan jump at the sound. Klink's expression was as angry as Hogan had ever seen it.

"You cannot arrest Colonel Hogan," Klink snapped. "He is my prisoner in the custody of the Luftwaffe. You may not take him from here unless you have authorization from Field Marshal Göring, himself."

Hogan remembered to take a breath. He tossed a quick glance at the Kommandant, who met it. Klink's eyes were full of questions. Hogan had no answers. Klink could see that.

Teppel softened again. He certainly knew how to disarm a situation—not that he disarmed. The pistol stayed pointed without waver at Hogan. "Again, my apologies, sir," he said, smarmily pleasant, to Klink. "I've let another misunderstanding get in the way. I'm not here to take custody of the colonel. Only to question him as to whether any other members of Abwehr contacted him while in Berlin. Who they were, and what they may have said." Teppel stepped menacingly closer to Hogan, waggling the pistol in his face. Hogan fought the impulse to step back. As he did, Hogan noticed Teppel moved to block Klink's view of the major's face. Meeting Hogan's eyes at close range, Teppel (Morrison?) mouthed 'play along' to Hogan with an imploring look.

"Depending on his answers, we shall see," Teppel finished threateningly. "We shall see." Hogan glared back steadily.

"But," Teppel said briskly to Klink as he turned and stepped away from Hogan, "first I shall need a suitable place to question the prisoner."

"Uh…" Klink seemed to be stumbling through the twists and turns of events. He looked at Hogan questioning. Klink met Hogan's eyes uncertainly. Hogan decided to take a chance, a big one. Hogan gave a small nod. "Uh… perhaps… my quarters?" Klink suggested, holding Hogan's eye. A slight shake of his head to Klink. "Or the cooler?" Klink quickly amended. Hogan gave him a faint nod.

"Yes, the cooler," Klink said more firmly, returning his attention Major Teppel. "It's secure. Private…" He let that thought hang a moment as he flicked another glance at Hogan. Still gambling, Hogan gave him another nod. One way or another, 'private' was what Hogan wanted from Teppel and/or Morrison.

"This way, Hogan," Teppel gestured with the pistol.

"I protest, sir!" Hogan said loudly, even as he moved toward the door. It was the pro forma protest expected by one and all and just as roundly ignored by one and all.

"Schultz!" Klink called. "Accompany Hogan and the major to the cooler." Poor Schultz saluted every which way and looked bewildered. Hogan knew the feeling.

Outside, Teppel seized Hogan by the arm, towing him reluctantly along while Klink bustled about, ordering guards to move Teppel's car to a 'better spot.'

Hogan and Teppel exchanged a glance at that. Better, indeed. Klink was moving the car out of sight. How about that. Throwing a sideways look at Barracks Two, Hogan spotted the periscope lens peaking out of the water barrel. Good boys. Holding three fingers out stiffly, Hogan hoped they could catch the message in the dark.

* * *

"Cell three, Schultz," Hogan whispered as they descended into the gloomy cooler building. "Cell three," he repeated at Schultz's puzzled glance.

Opening the solid iron door, Schultz stood aside, muttering, "I. Know. Nothing."

"Don't we all," Hogan agreed with a low sigh as he trudged into the cell, followed by Teppel.

The door clanked closed. Teppel turned toward Hogan. As he did, Hogan slammed his fist down on the major's wrist, catching the pistol barrel in his other hand as he did. He flipped the gun around and pointed it at Teppel.

"All right. Talk," Hogan commanded.

Teppel shook his arm and rubbed it. "Ow. Whatcha do that for?" he said in that disturbingly perfect Wisconsin-accented English. His entire demeanor changed… changed into Morrison. "I'm on your side, remember?"

"Really? I'm having a hard time telling," Hogan said, gesturing Teppel, or uh, Morrison, to sit on the bunk. Hogan leaned against the opposite wall and gestured with the pistol. "Tell me what the hell is going on. And convince me it's the truth. Let's start with 'who are you?' Major Hans Teppel, Abwehr? Or Robert J. Morrison, Milwaukee?"

Morrison sighed heavily and chuckled without humor. "Sometimes, Hogan, I'm not sure myself anymore."

"Not reassuring me here," Hogan said, giving him a nudging gesture with the pistol.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Morrison suddenly looked more outright afraid than Hogan had ever seen anyone. Ahem… actually, he looked like Hogan felt when they were in Berlin.

"The Gestapo's after me," Morrison said without preamble. "They're arresting dozens, maybe hundreds, in Abwehr today. A massive sweep. They, uh, suspect there's an anti-Nazi conspiracy within Abwehr." Morrison gave Hogan a small smile. "They're right."

"What does Klink know about this? You said something about the Air Ministry that put Klink into a complete panic," Hogan asked, studying Morrison carefully to try to sort out the truths.

Morrison chuckled. It had a pained sound to it. "There was contact in the Air Ministry who found out about the Gestapo sweep and warned us. Klink must know someone there who told him what was going on. The Nazis sure as heck aren't advertising it."

"How far does it go? The conspiracy?" Hogan asked.

"All the way to the top," Morrison said. "Admiral Canaris has been opposed to Hitler from the start. And I've been working with him—more or less openly—since the beginning. He's been passing intelligence to the Allies for a long time. He's even smuggled Jews out of the country to Switzerland. The Gestapo has never trusted Abwehr for good reason."

"I'll be damned," Hogan muttered. "And now…?"

Morrison grinned. "You know how you were at the top of Decker's list? Well, I'm at the top of the Gestapo's list. I gotta get out of Germany, or, uh…" He trailed off.

"Or what?"

The grin appeared a bit more strained. "You wouldn't happen to have any cyanide capsules on hand, would you?" Morrison asked.

Hogan's mind raced. "Were you followed?" Another damned one leading them right to Stalag 13. And someone with Morrison's experience should know better.

"No. I'm certain I wasn't—they wouldn't follow me. They'd just nab me. I'm sorry, Hogan. I had no other way to contact you other than to come here as Major Teppel," Morrison said, catching up to Hogan's train of thought.

Waving his hand dismissively. "We'll work out something," Hogan said. He glanced at the back wall of the cell. He'd heard the scratching from the wall—sounded like rats. Hogan leaned down and tapped on a block with the barrel of the pistol. Morrison jumped as the stone slid smoothly inward. Kinchloe—armed—peered inward, covering Morrison even as he glanced a question at Hogan.

"It's all right, Kinch," Hogan said. Maybe if he said it enough times he'd believe it. "We gotta move fast." How…? Yeah. "Kinch—we need someone about Teppel's, I mean Morrison's build, preferably who speaks some German. Get him into the major's uniform. He'll go out in Teppel's car, meet with the Underground. They need to leave a good solid trail at least fifty kilometers in the direction of Switzerland. Then that car and every trace that it and Teppel ever existed has to vanish and I mean but good."

"And me?" Morrison asked.

"You're about to be demoted to Corporal Robert J. Morrison, POW."

* * *

"So, finally you have this man locked up, Klink," Major Hochstetter said with a trace of satisfaction as he stared into the cell at Hogan. Klink practically pranced with nervousness behind him as the two stood in the doorway, peering in at Hogan who remained calmly seated on the bunk. The Gestapo major smacked his gloves into his hands over and over. Hogan could imagine all too clearly what Hochstetter was thinking; what he'd really like to be doing to Hogan. Reminding himself Hochstetter was nothing but an impotent psychopath, Hogan pasted on a chipper expression.

"Major Hochstetter!" Hogan said brightly. "Thank heavens the Gestapo is finally here."

That set Hochstetter aback, as Hogan intended. Klink cringed and gaped at Hogan, but had the sense to say nothing.

"What?" Hochstetter's glove-smacking froze mid-way to a smack. His beady little rat eyes darted back and forth between Hogan and Klink.

Pushing himself up, Hogan took a couple quick steps up to the major. "Yes, indeedy. Now that you're here to take charge of the situation I'm sure you'll be able to stop that nutcase Abwehr creep." Not allowing Hochstetter to say anything, Hogan turned quickly to Klink. "And I intend to protest, Kommandant, your allowing Major Teppel to lock me up in here without any charges. It's just wrong, I tell you. Wrong." Back to Hochstetter, still not allowing him that edgewise word, "Abwehr just doesn't have the Gestapo's sense of decency and fairness, Major. I don't have to tell you that. Do you know what that nutjob wanted? Huh, do you?"

Hochstetter went dark and threatening again. "No, but I'd love to hear it." He flicked a glance at Klink. "And why it is Major Teppel came to see you and your beloved Kommandant." Hochstetter gave Klink a look that suggested he'd very much like to flay Klink alive. Klink gulped and shrank back.

"Now, Major," Klink protested, with a bit of a quaver in his voice. "You know I, myself, called the Gestapo just as soon as I suspected something was wrong."

"Yes," Hochstetter said coldly. "But you conveniently waited until Teppel had left the camp and was well away. Complicity, Klink?"

Klink flung his hands in the air in a quite convincing show of innocence. Hogan silently applauded as he held his breath, waiting for the rest of Klink's performance. "How was I to know he was under suspicion of treason?" Klink protested. He waggled a finger at Hochstetter. "Major Hochstetter, my loyalty is beyond question," Klink said. "As is my record of cordial cooperation with the Gestapo. You have no reason to question my actions."

Hochstetter held the measuring glare at Klink while both Hogan and Klink held their breaths. Then Hochstetter turned abruptly back to Hogan. So far so good, Hogan thought. Waving his gloves under Hogan's nose, Hochstetter demanded, "What did Major Teppel say to you, Hogan? The truth, or I will force it out of you."

Giving Hochstetter his best innocently affronted look, Hogan said, "That lunatic actually tried to convince me he was really an American. A secret agent inside Abwehr. Can you believe that? A dyed-in-the-wool Kraut—no offence—thinking he could dupe me into buying some cockamamie story like that. Crazy! Ridiculous! Insane!" He peered at Hochstetter. "Obviously an attempt by Abwehr to trap me."

"Trap you into what, Hogan?" Hochstetter asked with oozing suspicion. "What did Teppel want you to do?"

"He said—Foolish! Impossible!—that he wanted _me_ to help _him_ escape from Germany! Can you believe it? Here I am locked up in the toughest POW camp in all of Germany, run by a Kommandant who's brutal—Brutal!—and he thinks I can get him out? I can't get out myself. It's insane!" Hogan held his expression, and his breath again as he waited for Hochstetter's reaction. Feeling Klink's eyes on him, Hogan didn't glance over, held the stare with Hochstetter unblinkingly, radiating truthfulness.

"Hmmm…" Hochstetter stared back a long time. He had nothing solid. Hogan could see it in his face. Just more suspicions he couldn't prove. The gloves finally completed their smack into his palm. "We shall see. We shall see." Abruptly, Hochstetter spun and marched rapidly away down the corridor.

Hogan and Klink exchanged a glance, letting out a short sigh in unison.

"You may go, Hogan," was all Klink said.

* * *

"Morrison?" Hogan called softly as he dropped off the bottom rung of the tunnel ladder.

Morrison stepped out of the gloom of a side tunnel. He looked different in U.S. army coveralls. Not so… Nazi. "I'm here, Hogan." He gave a lopsided smile. "Thanks."

"It's not over yet," Hogan said. "We still gotta get you out of Germany and that won't be for a while. You're too hot."

Nodding, Morrison said, "Something else is hot, too." At Hogan's questioning look, Morrison reached into the coveralls and pulled out a fat envelope. "Abwehr's codes."

Hogan took the envelope and peered in. "Damn..." he murmured. "This is hot. But I don't know how we can get this out just now. It's too risky for the Underground to handle."

Morrison took back the envelope and tucked it into his coveralls. "I may know a way."

"Really? How?"

Looking very reticent, Morrison sighed. "Hogan… I hate to do this, knowing how much you're risking to help me out here, but… I can't tell you. It's top secret."

_Top secret from which side?_ Hogan couldn't help but wonder. "Umm… 'Top secret' is sort of in my job description," Hogan said, irked.

Suppressing a grin, Morrison said, "I know. And I'm sorry, but this is one of the biggest secrets of the war—even beyond Abwehr being part of an anti-Hitler conspiracy. Strictly need-to-know."

"Give me a hint," Hogan grated.

Studying him a moment, Morrison finally said, "Nimrod."

To be continued...

* * *

Historical Note:

January 12, 1944—a massive wave of arrests by the Gestapo of Abwehr members and associates—over seventy arrested, most later executed. The elements included in this story are based in reality, including the involvement of German-Americans from Milwaukee (the show was not exaggerating Teppel/Morrison's character in "Bad Day in Berlin", it had an historical basis). Someone from the Air Ministry tipped off the Abwehr conspirators, but too late to save them. Abwehr was dissolved completely a month later. Admiral Canaris (mentioned by Teppel/Morrison in the episode) was executed before the war's end. The arrests and conspiracy became publicly known via Allied propaganda in Germany.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**February, 1944**

Klink stared a minute at the clipping from the American newspaper, only half-seeing the words on it. Escape center run from a German POW camp… _"No names please…"_ Shaking his head, Klink tucked the small clipping into his huge folder on Hogan. Probably small compared to the Gestapo's file, he considered ruefully. Closing it, he slipped the file back into its hiding place in his quarters. More pieces piling up. More dangerous, deadly pieces adding up to one thing. Hochstetter claimed again and again he knew what the pieces added up to, yet time and again was thwarted in his attempts to do anything about it. Someday… Everything was closing in, getting progressively more dangerous—not just with Hogan and his escapades, but everything, everywhere. The fall of Abwehr, the plots, the suspicions, the conspiracies… No one in the military was safe, not even a humble (loyal!) Kommandant of the toughest POW camp in Germany. A (loyal!) Kommandant who may on occasion, accidentally, overlook certain activities taking place under his nose.

And the war… the Allied air raids grew steadily in strength. Probing deeper and deeper into Germany, far more of the bombers survived to drop their bombs, now that they had long-range fighter escorts. Almost without realizing it, Klink fingered the wings on his uniform. He scarcely knew any active fliers in the Luftwaffe anymore, so many had been lost. Last week Hitler sent two hundred-seventy bombers on a massive raid to England. Less than one hundred made it through. At the same time the British and American bombers poured thousands of tons of bombs down on Berlin.

'Invasion' was the thought on everyone's mind now, though no one dare speak the word aloud. It was just a matter of when, and if it could be thwarted. If the invasion came this spring or summer, as it probably would, it could all be over by the fall. Maybe November the eleventh again. Hmph. There was a 'holiday' Hogan made sure Klink never missed.

Moving to his office, Klink watched out the window as the prisoners milled about the compound (aimlessly, he hoped!). Shrugging into his top-coat, he tied his silk aviator's scarf around his neck as he looked at them. When had they become people? Individuals he knew and recognized, rather than a faceless, nameless mass of enemy prisoners he loathed and, yes, feared? A group gathered loosely at the far side of Barracks Two. Kinch—it had become 'Kinch', not Kinchloe, not the American negro who always drew startled double-takes for his color—stood among them. When had Klink stopped seeing the color and started seeing the person? Just 'Kinch' now, Hogan's strongly quiet, responsible second-in-command? How much strength had Germany thrown away or destroyed with the Nazis' insane insistence on a purity that didn't exist?

Carter… Newkirk… LeBeau—the Cockroach, small but fierce, fiery—possible the most volatile of the lot of them, even more than the Englander, so intensely angry did he remain at the occupation of France. "Look what they did to France," Hogan had baited Klink with recently. "Yes," Klink admitted without even a pretense of defending his people, "took everything but the Eiffel Tower. But that was the SS, not the Luftwaffe," he'd quickly added. Still one small sector of his nation, his military, he could retain some sense of pride in. Honor. Hogan squashed that with a simple, "Seen Göring's art collection lately?" Hogan…

As Klink studied the American officer sitting comfortably and companionably in the midst of the enlisted men under his command, a memory flashed to Klink so vividly he could almost smell the scent of autumn in the air. Autumn and gunpowder. He was walking through the forest, just a young lad with Father and Grandfather. Young Wilhelm proudly toted his own gun for the first time on a hunt. The old shotgun of Grandfather's was heavy in his arms. A rustle, and a pair of turtle doves flew up. Father and Grandfather held back. Young Wilhelm swung the heavy barrel upward. His reflexes were fast. His aim was true. The birds tumbled downward in a spiral of feathers and death.

He never hunted birds again after that day. Staring out the window at Colonel Hogan, Klink couldn't explain to himself why that particular memory came now to mind. He shook his head and picked up his riding crop, heading out the door.

* * *

"Where's our beloved Kommandant going?" Newkirk asked as they watched him get in his staff car alone and head out the gates.

"It's market day," Hogan said. He added with a grin, "_Black_ market day."

A hail by a group of prisoners with a soccer ball drew Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter away, leaving Kinchloe and Hogan alone.

"Our Kommandant knows how to live," Kinch commented.

"That he does," Hogan agreed. "That he does," he repeated a bit more thoughtfully. Hogan shifted, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully as he stared after the Kommandant's car as disappeared down the road.

"You know, Kinch," Hogan said thoughtfully, glancing around to be sure no one could overhear them, "More and more I'm starting to come around to your theory on Klink."

"Which theory is that, sir?" Kinch asked mildly, a contained chuckle in his voice. "The one where he's the blindest fool in the entire German army?" The tone of humor dropped away. "Or the one where he knows exactly what's going on here and is playing along with it?"

"The second," Hogan said, looking away from the road to meet Kinch's gaze. "At least one small part of it. Remember how on that mission a little while ago when LeBeau went out as an 'escapee' and I followed behind to 'recapture' him?" Kinch nodded. "Klink came to my room one night to say he'd agreed to let me out to catch LeBeau and we had the oddest conversation. He was pretty damned forthright on admitting he had no idea how to catch LeBeau."

"Big admission for someone who prides himself on running an 'escape-proof' prison camp, and knows 'prisoner psychology' and all," Kinch commented.

"That it is," Hogan agreed. "But he's said stuff like that before when we've engineered escapes, and he knew they were engineered. No, the really weird thing was then he one-upped that oddity by saying I better 'do my job around here', or something to that effect."

"Huh," Kinch said, casting a thoughtful half-smile at Hogan. "So Kommandant Klink as much as said he sees the escape-proof, no-escape record of Stalag 13 as _your_ job… your doing."

"So it appears," Hogan said, shaking his head. "It was the closest to an open acknowledgement of the situation here—that Klink knows something is going on and he's playing along with it—we've ever had. I've run it through my mind over and over and just can't see any other possibilities."

"Hmm… I wonder…" Kinch said. Hogan watched him stare at the Kommandant's office for a while.

"What?" Hogan finally demanded when the length of Kinch's pondering reached Hogan's impatience limit.

With a flick of a grin, a bit sheepish, if Hogan read him right, Kinch finally said, "Well, sir… Another possibility occurred to me."

"What?!"

"Maybe Klink really thinks you are 'thoroughly cowed' and cooperating with the Germans," Kinch said with a hint of reluctance.

"Ah, come on. Me, a collaborator?" Hogan dismissed the idea, then reconsidered. "You think that's possible?"

Kinch shrugged. "You play Klink that way a lot. Remember way back he heard an American general call you a traitor."

"General Barton, yeah," Hogan said. "But as much as Klink loves to gloat over any little victory over me he never so much as said a word about that."

"Okay, but then there's all the times, like you said, you helped recapture escaped prisoners—that would have to be pure collaboration, in Klink's book, wouldn't it? And recently…" Kinch paused. "Heck, Colonel, you directed a propaganda film for the Germans with that moron actor, Major Buckles."

"So we could blow up the Adolph Hitler Bridge," Hogan said, but contemplated the appearance of the mission as Kinchloe laid it out from Klink's perspective. "I supposed it's possible Klink bought the collaboration bit hook, line and sinker. I didn't really think he did—Burkhalter either—that they just had to go along because we had such solid blackmail on them with the film of them pushing the plunger. But maybe…"

Hogan fixed a sharp look at Kinch. "Sometimes I wish you would quit thinking so verdammt much."

Kinch grinned back at him broadly.

* * *

"I apologize, but the price has gone up, Herr Oberst" the slimy black marketeer told Klink without hint of actual apology.

"For half a pound of coffee?" Klink exclaimed. "That price is ridiculous!"

Calmly the man said, "Germany has been out of coffee since 1942. And this, of course, is _very special_ coffee. Every year, every month, it grows harder and harder to… _secure_… such commodities. Every day the risk of being _discovered_—me and _all my connections_—grows greater."

Surrendering to the inevitable, and the not-so-veiled threats, Klink counted out more money. Black market… blackmail… It was ten times the going black market rate he was paying for this small tin of coffee, but then he really wasn't paying for the coffee at all. As he strode back out onto the street and back toward his staff car, Klink considered he should have gone to the Underground with this problem in the first place, then promptly squelched the thought. Donnerwetter, what was he thinking? The Underground would most likely shoot a Luftwaffe colonel before he could even finish a sentence of explanation. Or kidnap him and exchange him for one of their people… Klink shuddered at the memory. All that had been bad enough, but to arrive safely back at the Stalag only to be arrested and accused by Hochstetter of being that British agent Nimrod!

Sometimes being blackmailed a little bit seemed almost comfortingly normal, Klink decided as he climbed into his staff car and headed back to camp.

* * *

Kinchloe nudged Hogan to draw his attention to the 'prisoner' approaching them. It was Morrison/Teppel. With the flaps of his cap, and the brim, pulled low, and fatigues collar turned high, Corporal Morrison scarcely resembled the former-Abwehr officer. No, Kinch decided, it was more than the uniform. Morrison shambled over to them in a slouching, casual gait very typical of an American draftee, yet very un-typical of a goose-step-trained German military man.

"Good afternoon, Colonel Hogan, Sergeant Kinchloe," Morrison said as he came up on Kinchloe and Hogan.

"Guten Tag, Herr Major." Hogan greeted him with a teasing grin. "Wie geht es Ihnen?"

Morrison scowled. "Knock it off, Hogan. I have a hard enough time remembering to stick to English." He sat down on the edge of a crate near Hogan and Kinch. Shaking his head, he said, "Ten years over here and now I find myself translating German and English back and forth in my head." With a sigh, he admitted, "I'm still thinking in German, and dreaming in it. It's creeping me out a bit. I thought I'd be able to switch back quicker." He looked up at Hogan seriously. "How on earth do you keep from getting tangled and mixing them up, Colonel?"

Kinch glanced at the colonel. "I'm curious about that, too, sir. Be great to teach the others that trick. Carter still switches into English at the drop of a hat."

"Don't I know it," Hogan said ruefully. "Thought he was gonna get us arrested or shot when he started yelling in English out there the other night when that SS captain stomped on his foot. Fortunately they were all trying to defect or that would have blown the whole operation."

Hogan shrugged and shook his head. "How do I not do that? I don't know… practice, I guess. I've been switching back and forth for a long time." He shifted attention back to Morrison. "Out getting some sun while our brave Kommandant is away?"

Morrison nodded. "Yup. Saw him go out. Barracks Three and the tunnels get a little confining after a while."

"Yeah, kind of like those cells you had under the Abwehr building."

Scowling at Hogan, Morrison said, "How many times do I have to apologize for that?" Kinch noticed the two weren't really angry with each other. It occurred to Kinch that Morrison was the closest to an equal the colonel had in the camp—save for the Kommandant. Morrison had a similar background, minus the flying, and wasn't specifically under Hogan's command. Yet Hogan didn't seem to want to spend time with Morrison—no buddy sessions between the two that Kinch knew of. It was like something about Morrison made Hogan uncomfortable at a deep down level and the colonel avoided him as much as possible.

"You'll have to keep apologizing until I forget what it's like to be strip-searched by your Abwehr goons," Hogan quipped back. "And that's not likely to be any time soon."

Morrison grinned, then his face grew serious again. After a glance around, he said low to Hogan and Kinch, "You'll be glad to know those Abwehr codes are out and safe."

Hogan's expression went dark. "You didn't go out through the tunnels without authorization, did you?"

"No, sir," Morrison answered. "They went out by other means." He straightened. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to take advantage of this pleasant winter day and get some air and some exercise." He flicked off a salute toward Hogan that came out more German-style than American.

Hogan returned it absently. Morrison strode away to make the circuit of the camp's perimeter. Kinch saw Hogan go off into one of his deep contemplative places.

"Sir?" Kinch started, "How did he get those codes out? Without our knowing?"

"Nimrod," Hogan muttered.

Kinch gaped at him. "Here again? But who could possibly…? Who's been in and out of here recently we wouldn't notice?"

A cloud of dust on the road drew their attention. The Kommandant's staff car entered the gates and pulled to a stop in front of the office. Klink got out, marching mechanically up the steps, a small coffee can tucked beneath his arm.

A laden glance passed between Kinch and Hogan. In unison they looked back toward Klink's office. Then sharply back to stare at each other. Both shifted uncomfortably as they toyed with the absurd notion of Klink as a brilliant, master… well, _anything_.

Still, it did explain an awful lot…

Tortured strains of violin music issued forth from Klink's office. The melody would have been haunting had not the execution been so excruciating.

As one, they grimaced and said, "Nah."

* * *

**March 1944**

_Episode 159, "Easy Come, Easy Go"—Burkhalter enlists Hogan, with a promise of a million dollar payment, to go to England with Klink and steal a P-51 Mustang fighter. This long range fighter was letting Allied bombers reach deeper into Germany with more successful raids than ever before. Hogan goes to uncover the Germans' spy network in England._

"Well," Hogan announced as he came back into the barracks smelling of cigar smoke and perfume, with lipstick smears still on his cheek (again). "The verdict is in: Collaborator."

"How's that, sir?" Kinchloe asked on behalf of all the others.

"Burkhalter and Klink really do have me tagged as a potential collaborator." Settling down at the table, Hogan shook his head with a wry grin. "Get this, Burkhalter wants me to go to England, steal a P-51 Mustang and deliver it back here to them in Germany."

Out of the stunned silence, Kinch managed to ask, "For—what?—your deep and abiding love of the Fatherland?"

"A million dollars," Hogan answered. Kinch noticed his eyes go distant for a moment. Even Kinch had to admit to a twitch at the idea of that much money. Newkirk gave an uncomfortable squirm, as did LeBeau. Only Carter maintained his full, bland innocence.

"That's just crazy. You'd never sell out for just money. It would take…" Four stares in unison stopped Carter down before they found out what it was he thought Hogan _would_ sell out for.

"It's a step up, at least," Newkirk said with a distant mutter. "Freitag thought he could buy you for only fifty thousand dollars. Let's see… a million dollars in pounds sterling is…" Newkirk fell silent, his lips still moving as he calculated.

Hogan chuckled. "A million dollars… I suppose I should be flattered." He paused. "Or really, really insulted," he added with a frown. "Lotta money."

"For an airplane they're gonna get a hold of some day anyhow," Kinch allowed with a thoughtful frown.

"Lotta money," Hogan repeated. He pushed on the table, standing up. "'Night," he said distantly, heading toward his office.

As the door closed behind the colonel, the others exchanged a glance.

"Lotta money," Newkirk echoed in a murmur, his eyebrows raising.

"For a plane they'll get anyhow," LeBeau whispered.

"True enough," Kinch muttered agreement.

"Oh, for pity's sake," Carter burst out. "You can't think he's considering it. The colonel would never do such a thing."

Kinch, Newkirk, and LeBeau shook themselves as if coming out of a dream. Newkirk slapped Carter on the back. "Of course he's considering it, mate," Newkirk told Carter cheerfully. "A million dollars. Who wouldn't?"

Grinning at Carter's shocked expression, Kinch added, "Of course he's considering it. But he's probably considering how he can work it to our advantage."

* * *

"_You didn't say anything about this being a suicide mission!"_

Hogan repeated the conversation to the others down in the tunnels. "So Klink will be coming along as another escaped American officer, 'Major Davis'…"

A chortle from Morrison, leaning against the tunnel wall off to the side, interrupted Hogan briefly.

Eyeing him darkly for a moment, Hogan went on, "…and he'll have the means to contact the German agents in England." He turned toward Morrison. "It's a good time for you to go out. Burkhalter has the Gestapo well cleared away from this area because he doesn't want them to know what he's up to here with this. And his Luftwaffe guards will all be looking one way, so you should be able to slip out and away the other." He gave Morrison a small grin and added, "I'm pretty sure you can pass for a German."

Hogan tilted his head to the side and thoughtfully added, "Now I get to find out if Klink can pass for an American."

Judging from the expressions on the faces of his men around him, the 'no' vote was unanimous. Only Morrison looked doubtful, and that was no comfort.

To be continued...


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

_Episode 159, "Easy Come, Easy Go". Burkhalter offers to pay Hogan one million dollars to steal the new American fighter plane, the P-51 Mustang, and deliver it to Germany. Hogan goes along with the scheme to uncover the German spy network in England. It was Baker in this episode, not Kinchloe, but I'm not dealing with the change. All 'Baker' roles in this story will go to Kinchloe._

**Late March, 1944**

Klink regarded Hogan carefully as they settled into the back seat of the staff car. Hogan looked worried. As well he might. Klink had moved past mere worry long since. About the time Burkhalter said he would be the one accompanying Hogan on this mission to England to steal an American fighter plane, actually. Schultz closed the Kommandant's door and moved around to the driver's door. Klink peered past Hogan to survey the compound. A light snowfall overnight promised to vanish once the sun rose and warmed from the pre-dawn chill. For now, however, the snow made the camp look clean and almost pretty. Tracks in the snow showed the routes of the sentries, and that of Hogan out of Barracks Two to the staff car. Until roll call that's all there would be marring the effect.

As they pulled out of the gate, Klink asked, "Did you tell your men where you're going?"

Hogan gave him a scowl. "Are you kidding? I want to live long enough to collect my million dollars."

Of course, Klink thought. Senior officer or not, the other prisoners would not take kindly to one of their own collaborating with the enemy. Not that Klink believed Hogan was really collaborating. How could Burkhalter? Was he blind? Or that thoroughly taken in by Hogan's acts? Nonsense, Hogan wasn't a collaborator. Rubbish. Impossible. He had something else up his sleeve, Klink just wasn't sure what it was. He ran through everything in his mind again—girls, good food, liquor, back to the girls… Something had changed Hogan's mind from the first evening to the next. What was it? Klink shook himself from the thought. For himself, he kept coming back to that lovely, lovely case of money. It was a lot of money. Klink didn't delude himself—he'd take it in a flash if given the chance. Hmph… he'd sell out the Third Reich for a fraction of that amount if he thought he could do so and survive. But Hogan? No… Klink had heard too many of his comments and opinions about the Nazis. Hogan wouldn't sell out. Not even for a million dollars. So what was it that had changed Hogan's mind?

Holding his expression, Klink didn't comment nor ask about the reality of the situation. Instead, he asked, "What did you tell them?"

With a shrug, Hogan said, "Told 'em you were taking me back to the Luftwaffe interrogation center…"

"Evaluation center," Klink corrected reflexively.

Hogan flicked Klink a brief grin. "…for more questioning."

"About what?"

"The fighters. The P-51s," Hogan said. He cocked a bright smile at Klink. "They're my very favorite airplane."

Klink snorted. "Have you ever even seen one?"

"Nope." Hogan suddenly sounded much more cheerful. Act? Or dollar signs flashing? "But I'm looking forward to the meeting. Million dollar Mustangs." He said it very convincingly, Klink had to admit.

"Hmph. Do you really think this is possible?" Klink asked.

"Sure," Hogan answered. "Wouldn't be trying it otherwise. Listen, you just gotta stay cool. Follow my lead. Do as I say. Don't talk too much. Think… think _American_. Don't even think in German." He grinned again at Klink. "You people aren't too popular in England just now."

"But Yanks are," Klink said dryly.

With another grin, Hogan nodded. "Yup. We're the good guys."

Oh, yes. Absolutely a collaborator. Hmph!

As they went on the long drive through Germany, then across Belgium to the port city of Ostende, Hogan drilled Klink in American Air Corps procedures—what would happen when they got to England, what sort of questioning they'd face from American army officials, how an American airbase in England operated and how he would be expected to behave. Klink took in the information carefully. It occurred to him more than once during the hours of the drive that Hogan was divulging infinitely more military information than ever before since his unintended arrival via parachute into Germany almost two years earlier.

Oh, he'd divulged plenty of _German_ military secrets to Klink (and who knows how many others!), things he couldn't have, shouldn't have possibly known. Hogan almost got Klink shot as a traitor when Field Marshal Kesselring had been at Stalag 13 and Hogan gave Klink a rundown (top secret, Klink all too soon found out) on the Luftwaffe's Messerschmitts. There'd been a distinct camaraderie in that situation between Klink and Hogan, Klink considered. When Klink had been arrested after repeating the information to the charming and lovely (evil and duplicitous) Gestapo agent Fräulein Ziegler, Hogan had been the only one who came to him in the cooler with any sort of comfort. And it was Hogan Schultz had gone to for help to keep Klink from being shot. In return, it could not have passed Hogan's notice that Klink never once even hinted that the secret information he'd spilled had come from the American colonel. Hogan must have noticed Klink hadn't—what was the American idiom?—'ratted on' Hogan, not even to save himself.

* * *

The Kommandant was nervous as a mouse in a room full of cats, Hogan noted, right up until the moment they jumped down in the shallow surf of the English coast and the fishing boat backed away. _I'll be darned,_ Hogan thought. _Take Klink out of Nazi Germany and that tight-assed Kraut-ness dissolves away in an instant._ Hogan had thought Klink would be _more_ nervous, not less, at entering enemy territory. He'd definitely never have taken monocle-wearing Wilhelm Klink as spy material. Yet, here they were, explaining to an English Home Guard patrol that they were American officers just escaped from a POW camp in Germany, and Klink—even as he stood with his hands up beside Hogan—was positively chipper about it. Klink genuinely sold the happy-to-be-home-and-free bit. Donnerwetter, Hogan found himself thinking Klink's favorite not-quite-curse. This was unexpected. And a little disturbing.

* * *

Wasn't it strange, Klink considered as they sat on the train to London, how in the questioning sessions on how they'd made their 'escape' Hogan had made mention of Klink's ability to speak German as aiding them, but completely failed to mention his own skill with the language. He'd implied, in fact, he had no knowledge of German at all. Interesting. Interesting. Klink's record here was a pretense—using this 'Major Davis's' identity—but Hogan's was real. Did none of his own people even know the reality of Colonel Hogan?

"Major Davis here speaks German like a real Kraut," the American officer who took their statements told Colonel Forbes when he entered the train compartment.

"Oh, ja, ja, ja," Klink put in enthusiastically. Mein Gott! This was fun! He hadn't expected to find this kind of enjoyment in this mission. So this was how Hogan could maintain that crazy Yankee sense of humor throughout all the risk and danger. Fun. The fear of danger completely faded into the sheer pleasure of the game.

This time it was Hogan who had gone tense and a bit gloomy. "Yeah, well, none of us are perfect," Hogan put in dryly, giving Klink a sour sideways look. Spoil sport.

The whole day followed along the same track—one burst of enjoyment after another. The Americans were exuberantly friendly and welcoming. Their security personnel were nice. _Nice!_ Friendly. Pleasant. Agreeable. All sorts of other such alien words repeatedly ran through Klink's mind. There was not a Hochstetter among them. Donnerwetter, not a one even came close to being a Gestapo type. Again and again Klink felt an unaccustomed smile stretching across his face as they met and interacted with various American officers, and even the enlisted men.

The enlisted men… what a surprising curiosity they were. It explained much about how Hogan dealt with his men at Stalag 13. The American enlisted men behaved in a proper enough military manner. For Americans, that is. Oh, none lived up to German military standards, to be sure, nor even British, but better than Klink had expected. No, the surprise was their overall demeanor. Their casual, brazen freeness showed in each and every one. They might obey their officers. They might even respect (or loathe, naturally) their officers. What they didn't do was _fear_ their officers. Amazing.

Klink hated to admit it, but he found himself liking these people he was supposed to be fighting. Worse, he realized he envied them. This was particularly unexpected. And more than a little disturbing.

* * *

The American Air Corps uniform fit well enough, though of unflattering cut and lacking adornment. Buttoning the final button, Klink frowned as he surveyed himself in the mirror. The sense of enjoyment dwindled with the reflection of reality. His uniform, his real uniform, was Luftwaffe, with swastikas adorning it. Those who wore this dull brown uniform were determined to destroy he and his.

Somewhat more subdued, Klink critically examined the utilitarian room two officers, a colonel and a presumed-major, were expected to share. No orderlies nor servants. The quarters were certainly better than Hogan's quarters at Stalag 13, but—honestly—not much. Primitive. Barbaric.

And yet… these people were going to win.

"You Americans have a very sloppy security," Klink said gruffly, indulging the need to score at least some points for _his_ side.

"True. And we're gonna march right into Berlin sloppy," Hogan countered.

Hmph! He was supposed to believe this man was a collaborator?

Klink's mood darkened further as he settled down on the wretched cot that passed for a bed. Was everything American this uncomfortable? Where was the decadence? The self-indulgent luxury? The frivolity? The shallow foolishness? Was everything Hollywood showed the world of the United States just a lie?!

The drunk pilot provided a welcome distraction. It certainly pulled Hogan out of his gloom. "Danke, danke." Klink thanked the pilot as took the offered glass of whiskey. Seeing Hogan's reproving scowl, he realized he said it in German. Oops. It was harder to keep solely to English than he'd thought it would be. He had to cover his mistake quickly. Ah, an American idiom! "Happy landing, buddy," he enunciated carefully, raising his glass in a toast.

"Even in my condition, that's corny," the drunk pilot commented.

"He's really in the Luftwaffe," Hogan told him.

"Hey, funny. Funny," the pilot said.

Brilliant, Klink thought. Tell them a truth they'll never believe. Suddenly he wondered how many times Hogan had done exactly that to him. Klink dreamed about it during his unusually long, deep sleep that night.

* * *

Hogan had no plan on how to steal the airplane. That became abundantly clear as soon as they saw the P-51s on the field the next morning.

"What we need is help. A diversion," Hogan said. "What about your organization here?" Hogan asked casually.

The pieces clicked. Ah ha! So that was it. That was what had changed Hogan's mind the night with Burkhalter: The mention of their spy organization in England. How very clumsy of the general to have told Hogan about it. So Hogan did have a plan, just not, perhaps, the one General Burkhalter expected. Very well, then. "Oh, I have the address in London," Klink said, nodding along with Hogan's scheming. It was another case where he could do his exact duty and still not hinder Hogan. So... what next?

* * *

Hogan noticed Klink go all stiff and Kraut-like again as they entered the apartment—no, it was called a _flat_ here, he reminded himself—of Herr Schindler, the German espionage contact in London. Hogan had thought Klink would be at least a little pleased to see a fellow countryman, especially one who was putting a big one over on the Allies this way, but there was definitely no chumminess between Klink and Schindler. Or Brewster. Whatever the Kraut spy wanted to call himself. He could hang under whichever name he chose, Hogan thought as he memorized the details of the man, the room, and its contents.

The Schindler/Brewster would arrange a scramble at the field the next night. Hogan nodded. "All right," he said, "the rest is up to us."

"Ja, ja," Klink agreed, slipping _again_ into German.

As they stepped out onto the street, Hogan told him sternly, "Watch it with the German, Klink."

The Kommandant jerked, startled. "Did I do it again? Donnerwetter, this is harder than I thought." As they walked back toward the Tube station, Klink asked, "Do I do that at camp too, when we're speaking English together? And I just never noticed?"

"Yeah," Hogan said distractedly, hunting for the station sign in the nearly-unlit streets.

"Why did you never say anything about it?" Klink demanded.

Hogan stopped and scowled at him. "What difference does it make? I knew what you were saying either way." He shrugged. "When I bothered to listen. Ah, here it is." He started for the Tube station entrance. Hogan reached the door when he noticed Klink wasn't following him. "Are you coming?"

"Are you crazy?" Klink countered.

"Huh?"

"That pass you got us is good until midnight, isn't it?" Klink said. "It's not even seven yet."

"So?" Hogan stared at him. "Come on. Let's get back to the base."

Klink gestured around him. "We're in London."

"I noticed," Hogan said, growing progressively more annoyed.

Stepping nearer, Klink lowered his voice. "Hogan, Hogan… The first thing you have to learn about the spy business is to act naturally." Hogan stared at him. In the dim light of the Tube entrance sign Hogan would swear he saw a twinkle in Klink's eye. Certainly a sly smile spread across the Kommandant's face.

"Would two just 'escaped' POWs, on their first night of freedom, rush back to the base one minute sooner than necessary?" Klink asked. His grin grew.

Hogan laughed out loud and matched Klink's grin. Spy lessons from _Klink_. Who'd a thought it? But the Kommandant was absolutely right. "No, sir," Hogan admitted. "More than likely they'd be hauled back hours late, blind drunk. That is if the MPs could find which girls they were passed out with."

"Now that's a plan!" Klink said with enthusiasm. He peered around the London street. "Which way is Piccadilly?"

* * *

For Hogan, it became quickly and abundantly clear Klink had not the slightest interest in merely acting 'naturally' in their roles. No siree… Herr Oberst Kommandant Wilhelm Klink didn't seem to care that he was a spy in the heart of the enemy capitol—he was on holiday in London, away from all things Nazi, and he meant to enjoy it. Hogan shook his head, bemused, more than once. How about that?

"Oh!" Klink said with a very un-Kraut-like squeal of delight, coming to an abrupt halt. Hogan backtracked a few steps to reach his side (again!). Klink was like a kid in candy store here on the streets of London. "Kino," Klink said longingly.

"Cinema," Hogan corrected, jabbing him with an elbow. "Movies," he amended to the more common American term.

"American movies." Klink echoed, staring at the posters. "Oh! A western." Then his expression turned positively pouty. "There's not enough time tonight." Turning to Hogan, Klink said brightly, "Maybe we can see a movie tomorrow night."

"Only if it's a German propaganda film," Hogan said with a scowl. "We're going back tomorrow night, remember?"

"Hmph!" Klink turned sharply away from the marquee.

Hours later, at the pub Klink had selected, Hogan sipped his beer (British warm—yuck) slowly while Klink got sloppy drunk. Smiling politely at the plump English girl straddling Klink's lap, Hogan listened blandly to Klink tell the girl the most outrageously inaccurate things about life in America. The girl smiled and laughed eagerly as she gulped the drinks Luftwaffe money bought. If Klink's accent slipped a bit, or he threw in random German words, the girl didn't seem to notice. Chances were she didn't understand a thing he said anyhow. Her own East End accent was so thick Hogan could barely make out a word she said.

Hogan scanned and rescanned the bar to make sure no one was there who knew them, or was tailing them—American, British, or German. He didn't spot anyone. But he also didn't relax, especially when Klink struggled to his feet, dumping the girl off, and called for the attention of the entire pub for a toast. Uh, oh…

"To the Führer!" Klink shouted. The bar went dead silent. Every eye fixed on them. Hogan cringed and measured the distance to the exit.

Klink hoisted his glass higher, wavering and spilling a bit. "The psychotic paper-hanging corporal in Berlin!" He slammed his other hand down loudly on the tabletop. Hogan jumped. "Flat as a pancake," Klink pronounced, gulping a big slug of his drink.

"Here, here!" Cheers rose from the pub. Stunned, Hogan came in late drinking to the toast. Good God. Who was this Kraut?!

Dropping back into his chair, Klink squinted and focused, with some obvious effort, on Hogan. Low, Klink added, "And to Hansie Kronman." He raised his glass toward the middle of the table. After another stunned moment, Hogan clinked his mug to Klink's glass and shared the more somber toast. "I can't do that at home," Klink told Hogan. "Not out loud."

Looking up, drunk as a skunk, Klink met Hogan's eyes imploringly. "We could just stay here."

Hogan shook his head. "They'd arrest me as a traitor. Shoot you as a spy wearing an American uniform. Then Burkhalter would shoot my men as hostages. And I wouldn't get my million dollars. We're going back."

"Hmph. You are not any fun at all."

* * *

"Hogan, my buddy… my pal," Klink slurred, draped limply on his shoulder as Hogan struggled to keep him upright and moving in a more or less straight line down the street. "You are the only one who understands," he informed Hogan profoundly.

Understands? Hogan decided he didn't understand a verdammte thing.

"Klink," Hogan said harshly, hoping to get through the alcohol haze. "We are now officially AWOL… from _two_ armies. Come on, we gotta get back to the base."

"Sirs?" A voice cut in. "Are you Colonel Hogan? Major Davis?"

"That's us," Klink announced, patting his chest in a broad gesture. "That's me. One of me." He released Hogan and draped himself affectionately over one of the young soldiers.

"We'll give you a ride back to base, sirs," the MP informed them blandly, pouring Klink into the jeep.

* * *

Hogan flicked the switch to dump their remaining fuel. The engine of the stolen Mustang sputtered and died. "Like I always say, 'easy come, easy go'. Get out."

"Hogan. I can't jump." Klink clung to the edge of the cockpit.

"Okay, we'll stick together, pal," Hogan told him and immediately pried his fingers loose.

"Hogaaaaannnnn…."

* * *

"So your beloved Kommandant bailed out, followed by me," Hogan reached the end of the extremely censored tale. The men of Barracks Two, and Sergeant Schultz had hung on every word of the story even with the best parts missing. Left out were pretty much all the parts in London. The next day Klink had claimed—or feigned—no memory of the night's adventures, and loose talk.

"It had a captured Messerschmitt engine and a P-51 frame," Hogan concluded.

After Schultz left, still chasing his dreams of what he'd do with that much money, Kinchloe pulled Hogan aside. "I have some bad news, sir," Kinch said.

Hogan studied him closely. "What is it?"

"It's Morrison, sir," Kinch said. "He didn't make it."

"Caught?" Hogan asked. Bad enough for Morrison/Teppel, a disaster for them if the Gestapo cracked him.

"Yes, sir," Kinch said. "By Hochstetter." Hogan winced. "But Hochstetter won't get anything out of him." Kinch's rich eyes melted with sympathy at Hogan. "Morrison killed himself."

It took Hogan a moment to speak. "All right. Uh… thanks." He went into his quarters and closed the door.

* * *

The faint sound of the distant engine caught Hogan's attention. Pausing on his way to the Kommandant's office, Hogan turned toward the distinctive sound. Not the steady drone of a bomber on a fixed flight path, this was the dip and roar of a single-engine fighter being put through aerobatic maneuvers.

Hogan scanned the sky until he isolated the speck against the vibrant blue. The speck drew nearer, climbing high and then dropping down in a steep dive. The whine reached Hogan on the breeze. His breath caught in his throat as he watched the plane pull out of the dive at the last moment, pushing hard to climb back up into the sky.

Not taking his attention from the fighter, Hogan scarcely noticed Klink march up beside him, back to being all stiff and Kraut-like again.

"Is it an air raid?" Klink asked anxiously.

Hogan glanced at him, giving Klink his 'how did you get in the Luftwaffe?' scowl. "No, Kommandant. It's a fighter."

"What's he doing?" Klink asked, peering at the plane.

Hogan turned to watch it again. The shape grew in the sky as it came closer to the camp, diving and rolling. "He's playing," Hogan said, a touch wistfully. "Just playing. Don't see much of that lately." The breeze carried the engine's roar to them clearly as the plane climbed steeply upwards.

"A P-51?" Klink asked abruptly. "An American Mustang?"

Hogan shook his head again with a grimace. "It's a Messerschmitt, Colonel. One of yours," he explained as if to an idiot.

Ignoring the insulting tone, Klink commented dryly, "Amazing," Klink watched the plane, "how much alike a Messerschmitt engine and a P-51 engine sound." Hogan caught the accusing sideways glance the Kommandant gave him.

Unsuccessful in an attempt to repress a grin, Hogan said, "So they put together the wreckage." Apparently Klink wasn't quite as ignorant about aircraft as Hogan thought, or of plots and schemes. Klink did realize the P-51 they stole in England had a captured Messerschmitt engine replacing its own.

Without looking at Hogan, Klink said, "General Burkhalter was furious. He shouted at me for a solid hour. He was so angry, I thought he might have a coronary."

"More's the pity," Hogan inserted. "Are you in trouble over this? More importantly, am I in trouble?"

Klink shook his head. "No. The General was acting on his own. He had to cover up everything." Klink smiled with a rare, completely amused, look on his face. "My one great behind-the-lines spy mission of the war and all record of it has been eliminated."

Clearing his throat, Hogan murmured, "Not quite all record."

Shooting Hogan a glance, Klink said, "Of course. The British and Americans know." He sighed sharply. "I won't ask how you accomplished it."

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't tell me anyhow," Klink said with utter frankness. "Not the truth, in any case." After a moment he added, "I don't understand how General Burkhalter could ever imagine he could buy or blackmail you into betraying your side."

Hogan turned toward Klink, startled by the comment. "So you never bought it," Hogan said, wonderment creeping into his tone. "You never believed I'd deliver that plane."

"Of course not," Klink said firmly.

The fighter rose straight up in the sky until nearly stalled, then dropped to the side, executing a perfect hammerhead maneuver. Hogan couldn't stop the sound of longing escaping him.

"Fabelhaft," Klink murmured.

Hogan looked at him appraisingly. Klink watched the fighter with the same look of longing on his face Hogan felt. How odd, Hogan thought.

"Do you like to fly, Kommandant?" Hogan asked, puzzled.

"Oh, yes," Klink responded wistfully.

"Really?" Hogan stared at him. "I had the impression you didn't."

He glanced toward Hogan and quirked a faint smile. "It's the crashing I don't like. Or being shot at."

Hogan chuckled. "Right with you there, Kommandant."

"Yes," Klink said. "I know of two you've lost, your B-17 and that P-51. Were there others? But you bailed out of both before they crashed. As terrifying as it is to parachute out, it's even worse when you can't. Nightmarish. Were you ever in one when it hit the ground?"

"'Fraid so," Hogan admitted. "And more than once." It was strange, but somewhat enjoyable, to talk like this, just man to man, pilot to pilot. Odd that it was with Klink, but it felt comfortable, too. "I put a Hurricane into the ground in late November of '40."

"After Coventry," Klink said, low.

"Yeah. Just after..." Hogan watched the Messerschmitt play in the sky, but saw another time, a distant sky. "I, uh... probably wasn't in a proper frame of mind to be flying at all, but," he shrugged, "there were so few pilots available..." He cleared his throat. "Anyhow, I was patrolling, just me and my wingman, when we came up on a formation of three Heinkels split off from the main force. I dived down on those three." He paused and glanced at Klink with a wry grin. "Except there were four of them. I dived right into the field of fire of that fourth Heinkel."

With a serious expression, Klink asked, "What happened?"

With a shrug, Hogan said dismissively, "Caught a burst of 50 millimeters down the side. Lost power. Lost rudder. All I had was a little flaps and aileron. Not enough altitude to bail out. Dead-sticked in to a farmer's field. Gear wouldn't come down. Didn't catch fire, though. That was the only piece of luck I had. As the belly touched ground I remember thinking that tree at the end of the field looked a little too close for me to stop in time." Hogan grinned at Klink. "And that's the last thing I remember for about a week."

Klink shuddered. "Terrible."

Hogan grinned. "Oh, there was a plus side."

Squinting at him, Klink asked, "What possible positive side could there be?"

With an ever broader grin, Hogan said, "English nurses. There was this one red-head..."

"Tell me about it," Klink said eagerly.

* * *

Notes:

For interest's sake, one million US dollars in 1944, inflation adjusted to current values, is a little over twelve million US dollars now (almost 8 million GB pounds).


	20. Chapter 20

Advisory: Some very strong, uncensored English cuss words in this chapter!

**Chapter 20**

_Episode 155, "Operation Tiger" –Tiger is captured by the Gestapo and is being taken to Berlin to be executed. Hogan violates direct orders so he can rescue her._

**April, May… June 6, 1944**

"…so when I said we'd have a kite flying and basket weaving contest, you really thought I'd gone insane?" Hogan asked Kinchloe as they wandered around the camp together killing time by rehashing old stories.

Kinch flicked a teasing grin at him. "Well, sir… I thought you were crazy the day I met you, so it wasn't a big leap to think you'd finally gone completely 'round the bend', as Newkirk would say. Then when you spelled out the plan and it involved sending a hot air balloon up and out of camp… I was convinced. Convinced you were crazy, that is," he added with a smile.

Hogan chuckled. "Always give them the unexpected—the thing they'd never think of looking for. That's the way to play the game," he commented. Glancing around the camp, he took in the men, the barracks, the fence and guard towers… The fence…

"I'm on the verge of starting another basket weaving contest just to have something to do," Hogan said. "I have never been so bored here before. Cabin fever, or whatever the prison equivalent is." He turned from staring at the fence to look seriously at Kinch. "Now I think I understand how some guys can get 'wire happy' and just take a run at the fence." He shook his head. "Actually, I _know_ I can get out. I can really only imagine what it's like for the guys stuck in the other camps; what drives them so hard to try to get out."

Falling silent, Hogan contemplated—and knew Kinchloe did too—on the mass escape of mostly RAF officers from Stalag III that put the country into a turmoil. It had taken place, without any warning coming through their Underground channels, while Hogan and Klink were in London. Hogan arrived back to a Germany in a frenzy of escapee-hunting. Seventy-plus men got out, causing more, and larger scale, disruption with their escape than Hogan and his team ever had. Luftwaffe authority over air force prisoners wavered as the Gestapo pressed for control of the POW camps. It hadn't taken much of a sampler of a Gestapo takeover to convince Hogan and the others what a nightmare that would be.

London had urgently and emphatically ordered Hogan to stand down from any and all sabotage activities until things settled down. They were not even to leave the camp unless absolutely necessary.

For weeks their only actions had been those they could conduct from within Stalag 13—mostly intelligence work. Sending out plans to coordinate Underground units with the impending invasion in antique cuckoo clocks worked out well but had been one of their less-than-stuff-of-legend missions. All right—another visit from Marya had enlivened things for a bit. As had Hochstetter's attempt to plant a spy within their midst. But other than that… okay, to be blunt, Hogan was as itching to blow something up as Carter was, and that realization disturbed Hogan a bit. Intelligence work may be more important and significant in the long run, but there was an decided satisfaction in watching a bridge come down or a factory go up.

On top of it all, Klink had been in a particularly foul mood since returning from a visit to other stalags, including Stalag III; a trip to learn and compare security methods required of all the Luftstalag kommandants. Even with his peacock-proud no-escape record, Klink had to have felt a little outmatched by the view he got of the other camps.

"Things are starting to settle down," Kinchloe said. "All but a couple of the Stalag III boys have been recaptured."

"Yeah," Hogan said glumly, "those boys did a good job of messing up the works, but when the dragnet went out for them a helluva lot of others got rounded up with them."

Kinch didn't say anything. He didn't need to. It was how Morrison got caught.

"It's especially frustrating to be sitting still now," Hogan went on after a silent pause filled with many unsaid things. "There's so much we should be doing what with, you know, the balloon about to go up." He said nothing about it more clearly. It wasn't their homemade hot air balloon he meant. It was _the_ balloon… the euphemism for that which was never said aloud, not anywhere. Overlord. The invasion. They'd intercepted and interpreted the BBC's message to the French Resistance, "Blessent mon coeur d'une langueur monotone." Within forty-eight hours the invasion would commence.

Another long, loaded pause later, Hogan said, with a genuine smile, "I guess Tiger and Dubois coming here tonight means we'll be back in the thick of it." Kinch grinned back. Hogan knew he didn't fool him, or any of the others, about why he was really happy Tiger and what's-his-name were coming here again.

* * *

"It's. Against. Orders." Newkirk pronounced emphatically. Suddenly _Newkirk_ was spouting strict adherence to orders? Hogan surveyed the others. Not even Kinch was on-board with him. The Gestapo had Tiger and were taking her to Berlin to execute her… and worse. They had to rescue her.

London said 'no'. Correction: London said, "NO!" A direct order. No chance of misunderstanding. No chance of misinterpretation. And Kinch had acknowledged receipt of the message, damn him, so there'd no denying Hogan knew about it. The order was clear. Hogan was not to attempt a rescue of the French Underground leader now. Hogan's own organization was too valuable to have intact here behind the lines, especially now on the eve of the invasion, to risk it to save one person. Others had been sacrificed before now. Thousands more would be sacrificed when the balloon went up and they hit those beaches in France. That's the way it was. That's the way it had to be. Morrison/Teppel sacrificed himself to protect countless others, Hogan included. Tiger would willingly make that sacrifice herself. She would. He should…

Hogan examined each of his men in turn. Each one of them accepted the necessity of this sacrifice; understood the order and accepted it. Each of them knew, without shadow of doubt, Colonel Hogan would accept the inevitable and critical order, swallow his personal feelings in the matter, and do his sworn duty.

Yes… he would. Hogan looked at each face again.

Fuck orders. Fuck London. This was Tiger. He'd go it alone if he had to.

* * *

"Fräulein Monet," Klink said to the lovely and charming (_really_ lovely and reasonably charming given the circumstances) French Underground agent, "you may place me in jeopardy any time." He wished he could find an excuse to say her name some more. Marie Louise Monet… The very sound was a delight. Not even the disapproving scowls of the Gestapo agents could wipe the grin off Klink's face as he admired their lovely (lovely!) prisoner. She offered the first bright moment he'd known since returning from his visit to Stalag III.

Dead of night. Train stopped. Gestapo forced to bring a beautiful French Underground woman to Stalag 13 for 'security'… This had Hogan-scheme written all over it. And Hogan would be barging through the door of Klink's quarters in five… four… three… two… one… zero.

Zero.

Uh… zero.

No Hogan bursting in to tangle, confuse, or manipulate the situation. Hmm…

Very well, then, at a minimum Klink would do the best he could for the young lady and assign Schultz to guard her. Schultz looked particularly sleepy tonight.

Still no Hogan.

Morning roll call was uneventful. No strange happenings all day. Hogan never appeared at Klink's office with some bizarre story or request. Just… nothing. Klink started to think he'd read Hogan every kind of wrong. Evening roll call came and went. The prisoners were confined to the barracks for the night. Still nothing. The Gestapo agents took the woman back out of the camp. Klink waited on pins and needles.

Still nothing.

How very odd. Then the rumble of an explosion shook Klink from an already troubled sleep and not for the first time he wondered what would happen if he called for a snap roll call. Klink got up, turning on the radio to listen for news of what had happened. The Berlin Express, destroyed not far from Hammelburg… along with Fräulein Monet and the Gestapo agents guarding her.

And through it all, no sign Hogan had even noticed the Gestapo, or their prisoner, were in the camp. To Klink, that was the strangest thing of all.

Let's see, Klink reflected, the last time the Berlin Express blew up in the vicinity of Hammelburg… oh, yes—when Hogan was supposed to be on it being taken to another stalag. Surely, a coincidence.

Klink straightened. Maybe now was the time to have it all out in the open. Maybe now was the time he should march, without warning, straight over to Barracks Two and see what there was to see. Settle the doubts and the mysteries. Set straight the truth out in the open. Yes, maybe now…

Then other news came on the radio. Bigger news. News that swept all other thoughts from mind. Klink spun the dial rapidly hunting for less circumspect accounts. Hurrying into his office, he turned the military-band radio across the spectrum. Chatter. Confusion. He picked up the telephone to call a Luftwaffe officer he knew stationed near Paris—all the lines through to France were tied up. He sorted through the pieces. Waves of paratroopers dropped into France, hundreds, probably thousands. Rommel was wrong, they weren't waiting for the weather to clear. Klink paled as he considered what the dawn would bring. How could something be so thoroughly expected yet still be a shock? And it wasn't Calais. It was Normandy.

* * *

As he finally pulled his lips back from Tiger's, Hogan had to quell… well, he had to quell a number of things before he could glance over at the dopey grins on the faces of his men.

"Oh, Colonel," Tiger murmured, totally undoing that 'quelling' with just the husky whisper of her voice. Then she pulled back further. "We have to go get the information I was to bring to you when I was captured," she said, totally throwing a bucket of ice cold reality over the whole moonlight-rescue-Lone Ranger-passion moment. _Back to business, _Hogan thought wryly. _That's my girl._

_My_ girl.

Tiger rapped out the details as they moved quickly back toward Stalag 13. In the tunnel, he rapidly changed out of the Gestapo uniform into sort-of-but-not-quite his own uniform. If he got caught it would be with the cover of an escaping POW.

"I'll go out with Tiger," Hogan told his men. "The rest of you, stay in camp." He paused, ignoring the irony as he added, "And that's an order."

"Sir," Kinchloe said, "I'm going with you." He'd already changed into all black. Hogan noted he wasn't asking. From the looks on the faces of the others, they backed Kinch's statement. And here smacking him in the face were the immediate consequences of his men seeing their commander disobey a direct order, Hogan thought.

* * *

Kinchloe waited outside the apartment building in Fulda, a moderate town up the road from Hammelburg. Crouched in the bushes, he reflected on a lot of things as he watched the shadows on the window shade in the apartment Tiger had led them too. For all that was taking place elsewhere tonight, this little piece of Germany was particularly quiet and peaceful. He watched the shadows again. Then he tried very, very hard not to watch the shadows as they moved into the bedroom and merged into one.

* * *

"Oh! Oh… oh Colonel!"

"Uh… _pant_… I think… _gasp_… you should… _pant_… call me Rob."

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe whiled away some of the time by mentally conjugating various German verbs. It filled the time while the colonel and Tiger were… uh, conjugating. It was dumb and it was dangerous and Kinch didn't blame them a bit.

Then Colonel Hogan finally emerged from the apartment building and practically ran straight into a police patrol. Kinch perked up. Hogan dropped the packet of intelligence information behind him, into the bushes, with a hand gesture clearly aimed toward Kinch. The police didn't see it. Then the colonel stepped forward toward the patrol, away from the damning information, and raised his hands. Damn him! He could have run and made it away from the patrol. Kinch scowled. But then they'd search that apartment building and probably find Tiger.

Watching intently, Kinch calculated the situation. The police patrol seemed intent on taking Hogan straight back to Stalag 13, not even stopping at their own police station and jail. Kinch heard them say it. Odd. Good, but odd. It must have something to do with the mass escapees from Stalag III, but Kinch wasn't sure what. Wanting to save themselves a lot of trouble and paperwork, maybe?

A hopefulness that this would all work out well took hold in Kinch—and he could see it in Hogan's face—right up until the moment a car squealed to a stop, and the click of hobnailed boots echoed in the street.

Gestapo.

* * *

"I need to talk to the Kommandant, Schultz," Kinchloe said urgently, trying to work his way around the sergeant to get to the retreating Klink.

"Verboten," Schultz insisted, blocking him. Why did Schultz have to be diligent now of all times?

A distraction from Newkirk and LeBeau, and a quick feint to the side and Kinchloe quickly reached the Kommandant's side.

"Kommandant Klink. I need to speak with you," Kinchloe said.

Klink gave him a wary and annoyed look. "Address your concerns through Colonel Hogan," he snapped, turning away.

"It's about Colonel Hogan," Kinch said, fighting the urge to grab Klink by the arm.

Stopping, Klink glowered at him. "What is it?"

Desperately trying to reach for a fraction of the style and verbal ploys Hogan used on Klink, Kinchloe said quickly, "He's escaped, sir. You have to call out an alert on him."

Clearly not believing him, Klink demanded, "What sort of game is this? Where's Hogan?"

Kinchloe sagged. Abandoning any more thought of pretense or ploy, he decided his best choice was to resort to the pure truth; to bet the works on Klink and the man they suspected he really was. "It's not a game, sir. Colonel Hogan was arrested by the Gestapo in Fulda last night. He's been taken to their headquarters in Düsseldorf. You _have to_ send out an alert that he's an escaping POW. Sir."

Confusion registered on the Kommandant's face. "But Schultz said Hogan was in his quarters, ill, at this morning's roll call. Now you're saying he's miles away from here? In Fulda? That he escaped?"

"No, Kommandant," Kinchloe answered steadily. "I'm saying Colonel Hogan is in Düsseldorf at Gestapo headquarters. And I'm also saying it's very, very important that an alert be sent out saying he's an escaping prisoner. That he's _only_ an escaping prisoner."

* * *

"Oh, mein Gott," Klink whispered as he stared at the American sergeant. He knew full well this man was effectively Hogan's second-in-command, so he couldn't just dismiss or disregard what Sergeant Kinchloe told him.

"Sergeant," Klink said, straining to keep his voice steady, "Is there any chance Hogan might have been caught consorting with someone from the Underground?" Klink would swear that if Kinchloe weren't black he'd have turned bright red at the question.

"No, sir," Kinchloe almost stammered. "The, uh, _consorting_ was finished. The colonel was arrested on the street. Alone. But the Gestapo… well, they, uh… and the colonel… You know how it is, sir."

"Say no more," Klink said, raising his hand to stop the man. "I don't want to know any more." But he did need to know more. "Was Hogan in uniform? _His_ uniform, I mean," he asked. Please, not in a German uniform.

The sergeant looked contrite and embarrassed again. Of course, it wasn't in their policy to reveal this sort of unvarnished truth to Klink. "In uniform, yes, sir," Kinchloe said. "Sort of. But his ID and dogtags…"

Klink groaned. "What name should I say is that of the escaping prisoner?"

With a small sigh of relief, Kinchloe said, "Major Kyle Donovan, sir, Royal Canadian Air Force."

Just as well, Klink thought. Hogan's real name sent up red flags to the Gestapo. As well it might, he added gruffly to himself. Colonel Hogan they would not release easily. 'Major Donavan' they might. Maybe. Hopefully. Hurrying into his office, trailed by Sergeant Kinchloe, Klink instructed Fräulein Hilda to send out the standard alerts to the area police stations, giving her the assumed name with Hogan's description. Interesting, he noted in passing, she didn't seem surprised, or question, the escaped prisoner's name.

In his office, Klink turned again to Sergeant Kinchloe. "Once those alerts are out I will contact the Gestapo in Düsseldorf and inquire as to whether they have my wayward prisoner. To retrieve Hogan, however, I will need paperwork proving 'Major Kyle Donovan' is, in fact, a prisoner at Stalag 13." He arched an eyebrow expectantly at the sergeant.

As he anticipated, an excellent set of camp documents—indistinguishable from authentic ones—were presented to Klink. Of course. The dozen other questions about what Hogan was doing so far from camp, how Kinchloe knew he'd been arrested, and why Schultz had falsely reported Hogan present at the morning's roll call, Klink let pass without comment. There would be time for that later.

* * *

It was past sunset before the staff car pulled up in front of the Gestapo headquarters in Düsseldorf. Folder of papers clenched in his 'iron fist' hand, riding crop held tightly in the other, Klink took a deep breath before starting briskly up the steps. Schultz hurried behind, his anxiety almost palatable.

"I'm Colonel Klink," he announced sharply, hiding his apprehension at being in this place with brusqueness. "I'm here to recover my prisoner. I telephoned about him this morning and was informed he was being held here," Klink told the Gestapo desk officer.

It seemed forever, but in reality could not have been more than ten minutes before a guard escorted Klink, trailed by a nervous Schultz, down a long corridor to an office. Not a cell? Had they been questioning him? Or trying to? Klink felt his stomach churn as the office door opened. A Gestapo officer, with the same sour expression they all wore, sat behind a desk littered with papers—questioning forms. An SS guard stood nearby.

Opposite the desk, Hogan, hands cuffed behind his back, stood facing a wall, his nose practically touching it. Klink squinted in puzzlement. Hogan didn't move so much as a muscle when Klink and Schultz stepped into the room. He didn't even turn his head at the sound of their voices. Flicking the barest twitch of a glance out of the corner of his eyes, toward Klink, Hogan just as quickly returned to staring fixedly at the wall. How on earth had the Gestapo managed to compel this kind of silent compliance from Colonel Hogan?

The SS guard smacked a truncheon loudly into his gloved palm.

Oh.

Yes. Well…

Hogan's relief at seeing Klink and Schultz was obvious, even behind his rigidly controlled expression. Klink had seen him wear that expression around the Gestapo before—tightly repressed hatred.

Klink scowled and studied his prisoner more closely. Donnerwetter… Not his own uniform jacket—his name not on it. Uniform shirt and trousers. American colonel's insignia on one shirt collar. Canadian major's on the other. The Gestapo probably couldn't distinguish between them anyhow. Nor that the uniform was American army air corp. Too used to dealing with civilians. At least Hogan wasn't wearing civilian clothes. Or—heaven forbid—a German uniform.

Not that it mattered. Klink had to study the floor for a moment to suppress the thought. Not that it really mattered. Not anymore.

He looked back up. "Yes. That's my prisoner," Klink said gruffly, presenting the perfect forgeries to the officer at the desk (_Oh mein Gott! I'm handing forged paperwork to the Gestapo!_) . Taking a lesson from Hogan, Klink discretely read the papers on the desk upside down. Hogan had only told them his name (fake), rank (fake), serial number (fake). "Take Major Donavan to the car," Klink ordered Schultz. Grasping Hogan firmly by the arm, Schultz pulled him away from the SS guards and hustled him out the door. As eager to be gone as Hogan and Schultz, Klink forced himself into a practical chilliness as he dealt with the final paperwork transferring custody of the prisoner. He tolerated, without comment, the critical comments of the Gestapo officer regarding his ability to control his prisoners.

Setting his file folder on the desk, Klink shuffled through his documents as the Gestapo officer signed and stamped the inevitable forms. As he gathered his paperwork back into folder, Klink collected several of the Gestapo's papers with his own. The officer noticed but made no comment. Mere forms with nothing but the prisoner's name on them.

"I'll need this one too," Klink muttered, reaching across the desk. Taking the useless document, Klink also managed to snatch the one he was really after, the card with Hogan's fingerprints on it. Heaven forbid that should make its way to the Luftwaffe High Command in Leipzig for comparison to the POW fingerprint files kept there. Or, worse, to the records the Gestapo undoubtedly had in Berlin. No, it was vital 'Major Donavan's' identity never be connected to Colonel Hogan's.

As he stepped out into the twilight, Klink paused on the top step to breathe and fight the sudden wave of dizziness. Perhaps it really was just as well he hadn't gone to spy school when he had the chance. London had been fun. That had been a game. This wasn't London. And it wasn't a game. This was worse than firing a machine gun through a propeller that might or might not be perfectly synchronized. Curse that Hogan.

Not a word was spoken in the staff car until the last checkpoint outside of Düsseldorf passed behind them in the night. Then Hogan let out a long sigh and turned toward Klink. "Thanks for getting me out of there." Klink scowled and said nothing. Hogan shifted a bit on the seat and added, "Would you mind taking these cuffs off, Kommandant? You have my word I won't try to escape."

"The handcuffs stay on," Klink said through gritted teeth. He could feel Hogan's surprise at Klink's harshness.

"Yes, sir," Hogan said, low, apparently finally realizing Klink was not in a mood to be trifled with. After a pause he asked, sounding much more subdued, "Would you at least loosen them please, Colonel? They're awfully tight."

Klink just turned away to stare unseeing out the window, counting up the price. The terrible price…

* * *

Hogan stayed quiet for a long time, wondering at Klink's foul mood. Even Schultz had been terse and abrupt, pulling him down the steps to the staff car more than a little roughly. News about the invasion had them on edge, perhaps? Squirming a bit, Hogan tried to find a less uncomfortable position, but none was to be had.

Their pace slowed as night deepened, and the roads deteriorated as they moved further off the main roads to the lesser traveled roads toward Hammelburg. They were hours yet from the camp. Hogan turned from staring at Schultz's tense shoulders to glance toward Klink. The Kommandant had scarcely moved, staring out the side window, his entire stance showing an anger deeper than Hogan had ever seen from him before. It was a struggle to remain silent, but his instincts warned Hogan he should not be the one to break this uncomfortable silence.

Finally a long, soft sigh escaped Klink. Without turning toward Hogan, he said, "I trust, Colonel Hogan, you heard of the mass escape from Stalag III some weeks ago?"

Odd question, Hogan thought. "Yes, sir," he answered cautiously. "As I heard it, seventy-six got out." None of the 'great escape' prisoners had come by way of Stalag 13—they were too far away in Sagan, near Poland, to connect to Hogan's escape route.

"Seventy-six," Klink echoed in a hollow tone that puzzled Hogan. Was Klink in trouble over Hogan's ersatz escape? The brass cracked down because of the Sagen mass escape, was this part of it?

"They were recaptured almost at once, of course," Klink continued. "All but a handful—two or three—who may have actually gotten away. Such a price for so little gain," he finished quietly.

Hogan didn't understand how this related to Klink's bad mood. Nor Schultz's obvious tension. Carefully, Hogan ventured, "They tied up a lot of enemy forces hunting for them. Forces that could have been on the Front. Or to counter the invasion. Not a bad gain. Those boys did a good job."

The silence stretched taut for about three long seconds. Then Klink snarled, "Schultz. That turn-off ahead, to the right. Take it."

"Jawohl." It was Schultz's first word of the long drive.

The road was scarcely more than a country lane, barely wide enough for the car. This road led nowhere. Why was Klink having them drive down it? Hogan strained to see ahead, but the bare sliver of moonlight and the air raid-shielded headlights showed little.

"Stop here," Klink snapped as they reached a scanty grove of trees.

Schultz ground the car to a halt. "You are to remain in the car, Sergeant," Klink said. "That's an order."

"Jawohl," Schultz said again, still staring straight ahead through the windshield, clenching the steering wheel. What was wrong with these two, Hogan wondered.

Klink got out of his side and for a moment Hogan figured he'd just needed to make a stop to visit Mother Nature, but then the door on Hogan's side of the car was yanked open.

"Out," Klink ordered. Not waiting for Hogan to comply, Klink grabbed him by the arm, pulling him out roughly.

Hogan grunted as the steel of the too-tight cuffs dug in more painfully. "Easy, Kommandant. I'm coming."

"Shut up," Klink snapped.

What the hell was going on here? Klink led Hogan back along the road about a hundred feet from the car, jerking him to a stop facing the small grove of trees. Squinting in the dim light, Hogan strained to see Klink's face.

"Get down on your knees," Klink ordered in an icy voice Hogan scarcely recognized. He punctuated the command by drawing his sidearm and aiming it at Hogan. Barely breathing, his eyes fixed on Klink, Hogan slowly knelt. The pistol tracked him downward.

"Colonel Klink," Hogan started slowly, "What…?"

"Silence!" Klink cut him off.

A creeping fear grew in Hogan as Klink paced a slow circle around him, pistol never straying. A dark, deserted side-road… Himself... handcuffed, kneeling, with a gun on him? If he didn't know better, the scenario screamed of the ugly 'shot while trying to escape' stories. But Klink? No. Never. What game was Klink really playing here?

Then Klink stopped pacing and stood beside Hogan, staring down at him with a hard expression on his face. "There's something about the Stalag III mass escape, Colonel Hogan, that I think you do not know," Klink finally said, his voice low and bitter. "Of those recaptured, fifty were shot. Killed." He paused a second and Hogan saw Klink swallow hard. "Murdered by the Gestapo."

Oh, good God. Hogan's mind drained of thought. He could only stare at Klink. Then Klink moved behind him and suddenly Hogan felt the pistol barrel against the back of his head. His breath came in short, shallow pants as the touch of the deadly metal sent a shiver through him.

"This is how it was done, Colonel Hogan." Klink's words were coldly and methodically paced. "Just exactly like this. They were taken out, a few at a time. Driven to a remote place. They were handcuffed. Harmless. Helpless."

Hogan heard—_felt_—the pistol's safety snap off. He held his breath. Couldn't breathe. Klink?? Had he been ordered to execute Hogan? Would he obey such an order? He wanted to trust the Klink he thought he knew, but a gun to the head breeched all faith. Should he be saying his final prayers?

"They were shot, Hogan," Klink said in a whisper. "Allied officers. Fifty of them."

The pressure of the pistol barrel increased for a second. Hogan squeezed his eyes closed. Then the pressure was gone and Klink moved off a few paces to the side, his hand with the pistol dropping to his side. Hogan started to breathe again.

"It's not a game anymore, Hogan," Klink said, his voice now drained of strength. "Not a game. In uniform, out of uniform. Arrested as a spy, or as an escaping prisoner. It's all the same." He turned and looked down at Hogan. "The Kommandant of Stalag III was arrested. He might be shot. Every time you fall under suspicion, I fall under suspicion. It's not just your life at stake, Hogan. It's mine. And Schultz's. And our families'. My mother. Schultz's wife. His children. All could be forfeit. Because of you. Because of your activities. And the other prisoners, as well. Not just at Stalag 13, but at all the camps."

Hogan stared at him, nodding slightly. "I understand, Kommandant." At this angle, Hogan could see what Klink could not—at the staff car, standing beside it with his rifle laid across the roof, Schultz held a steady bead on Klink. "It's not a game, sir." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "It never was."

To be continued...


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Dawn colored the sky before the staff car entered the gates of Stalag 13. With his hands locked behind his back the whole night, Hogan's fingers had grown numb, and he had an itch threatening to drive him crazy, but he didn't think it wise to complain, nor wheedle, nor manipulate. For now, continuing to breathe seemed more than sufficient. Not another word had been spoken in the car the rest of the trip.

The door to Barracks Two cracked open and a few of his men stepped outside, obviously up and awaiting his return. He gave a shake of his head toward them as Schultz pulled him from the back seat of the staff car, hoping they understood they were to stay back.

Klink faced Hogan. "Thirty days isolation," Klink said flatly. Hogan decided now was not the time to argue or negotiate the sentence. Later. When Klink had calmed down. He met the Kommandant's eyes steadily. Something unfathomable still in his eyes as he stared at Hogan, Klink said, "Schultz, take him away."

In the cooler, Schultz bypassed the first isolation cells, the ones usually used—the ones with tunnel entrances—leading Hogan, instead, to a seldom used cell at the end of the corridor. Did Schultz know about the tunnel into the other cells? Of course he did. All the know-nothings Schultz knew had to be adding up and accumulating somewhere. Schultz _knew_ which cells the prisoners could access or open. He must, for the cell he chose for Hogan was one with no tunnel entrance.

Leaning his head against the wall, Hogan considered Klink's actions and words on the road. Over and over in his head he replayed them, wondering what exactly it was that had struck him, other, of course, than the mind-numbing coldness of the gun to his head. Spy… Klink had used the word 'spy'. And he'd said 'because of your activities'. Hogan replayed the words, and Klink's actions, again. Scanning around the glum cell again, Hogan wondered, did Klink lock him in here to punish him for escaping? To expose Hogan's organization and do his sworn duty to the Reich? Or to save Hogan's life?

Thirty days. Well… he'd certainly have time to contemplate the answers.

* * *

The solitude and introspection were interrupted not ten minutes later when the cell door opened and Hogan saw two guards staring stonily in at him. Great, Hogan thought bleakly. No Schultz. Neither of these were 'tame' guards. One usually manned the towers, having little personal contact with the prisoners. The other was fairly new—just returned from the Front and none too fond of enemy officers. The Keystone cops, Hogan tagged them… the nasty, non-bungling Keystone cops. The two made it entirely clear Hogan's cooperation would be compelled by force if necessary. They also made it entirely clear they would enjoy it immensely if Hogan chose not to cooperate.

Thus Hogan spent a chilly and unpleasant half hour with his hands up, leaning against the back wall of the cell as the two guards searched him, every stitch of his clothing, and the cell, in an exacting detail such as he'd never known here in Stalag 13.

When the iron door finally slammed closed again with a resounding _thunk_, Hogan took stock. All he'd been left was his proper uniform clothing, to which they added his correct bomber jacket and cap, and his watch to count off the slow hours.

By the second day the lack of contact with the world started to nag at Hogan. Where were his men? What was going on outside? He did not have time to just sit here, out of the action, for a full month. That just would not do. With the invasion in France now a reality, there was even more work to be done here behind the lines. He did not have time for this. Who did Klink think he was, anyhow, to lock him up like this?

He thought he was commandant of a POW camp. And he thought Hogan was his prisoner.

This was worse, Hogan decided on the third day, than when he was held and questioned by the Gestapo after he was first captured. Certainly this stay in Stalag 13's cooler was infinitely more comfortable, but this abject nothingness ate at him as the Gestapo's callously calculated abuse never had. That had been miserable, but it had been aimed toward a purpose, a purpose Hogan knew, and that gave him a focal point to fight it. This…

What was going on out there?

The fourth day, when the cell door opened, Hogan merely muttered, "Verpiss dich," _piss off,_ when Keystone cop #2 ordered him to stand up to be frisked. A grin spread across the Kraut's face. He'd been waiting for this.

A few bruises later, Hogan again submitted to the ritual.

The routine was broken some hours later by footsteps in the corridor. Hogan perked up, recognizing the unmilitary tread of Schultz, rifle butt dragging beside him scraping on the concrete. The sliding window opened and Hogan heard Schultz say gruffly, "You have two minutes." Then his footsteps retreated.

"Hey, Colonel," Kinchloe said, peeking through the opening.

"Kinch." Hogan's relief almost overwhelmed him. "What the hell is going on?"

Kinch scowled at him. "I was kinda hoping you could tell us that, sir. This place is locked down tight. Worse than when Captain Gruber is in charge. We tried to get in to see you but just _couldn't_. Schultz wouldn't be bribed, begged, nor bullied. Even now, I was going to bring you some stuff but _Schultz searched me._" His voice rose in obvious bewilderment.

"Yet Schultz let you in here to talk to me?"

Shaking his head, Kinch said, "No. Klink ordered me to come down here. They're acting awfully strange, sir. Especially the Kommandant. Did something happen on the way back from Düsseldorf?"

_Did it ever._ Hogan glanced away for a moment, steadying himself. "Yeah. Something did. And I don't know quite what to make of it yet." He waved away Kinch's questioning look. "I'll tell you about it later." Hogan let out a long breath, trying to think. "Listen, Kinch… I want you to shut down operations. Everybody just lay low and don't tangle with the Krauts. Tell London we're… we're on hiatus." London wouldn't like that. Scheiße… First he disobeyed their direct orders to rescue Tiger. Then it all went to hell and he put his unit out of action. If the Krauts didn't hang him as a spy, he might end up getting court martialed by his own side. Great… more to dwell on during the next twenty-five days, nineteen hours and—he glanced at his watch—seven minutes.

"What if something critical comes in?" Kinch asked.

"Use your best judgment," Hogan said. "But be extremely cautious. The Germans are very riled up, and it's not just the D-Day invasion." Quickly, as he could hear Schultz's steps nearing, Hogan told Kinch about the fifty murdered officers from Stalag III. Kinch stared back in shock.

"How's Tiger?" Hogan asked.

"She's…" Kinch started.

"Time's up," Schultz announced. He pulled Kinch immediately away from the window and shoved him down the corridor. _What about Tiger?! _Hogan strained to see and hear out the small opening.

"Fine," Kinch called back toward the cell. What?! Tiger's fine? Is that what Kinch meant? "Ah, come on, Schultzie," Hogan heard Kinch say in a wheedling tone, "Just another minute."

"Time's up," Schultz repeated, turning back, he slammed the sliding window closed in Hogan's face.

Hogan jerked back. Another puzzle piece. Klink sent Kinch down here. Why? To have Kinch get Hogan to settle down and stop resisting by assuring him his men were okay? Or to get Hogan to order his men to stand down from any activities? He dropped back down on the bed. Damn. Verdammt. Damn. He hadn't gotten to ask Kinch if the invasion was still progressing. Were the Germans retreating? Or fighting back? If the invasion was beaten back it would be years before another could be attempted. Not knowing… not knowing was the worst thing of all. The war could be over in months. Or it could drag on for years more.

Years. Hogan's eyes darted around the confined space he couldn't get out of, swallowing back his apprehension. Years.

What about Tiger? Oh, God… he buried his face in his hands. Had it all been for nothing?

Five days, six days...

Argh! Hogan stood to pace the tiny space. Three short steps, end to end. He pushed futilely at the door. _Harmless_. _Helpless_. Klink had also used those words on the road. Was that what this isolation was about? He recalled those early days when he was shot down; recalled thinking the definition of being a prisoner was having no control over so much as the next minute of your life. That feeling had all but vanished here at Stalag 13. Was Klink reminding Hogan of the fact this was a prison? Teaching him forcibly that, in reality, Hogan was a prisoner? In a burst of frustration, he kicked at the door and immediately regretted it. Limping back to the bed, Hogan sat. He returned to thinking, calculating, evaluating…

Seven days, eight days…

Hogan came to alert. Sharp footsteps snapped down the corridor outside the cell. They weren't the guards. No, he recognized the taut pace. Klink.

Standing, Hogan moved to the iron door. Finally. Now he'd be able to talk Klink out of the remainder of this wretched sentence.

The window slipped open. Hogan took a breath to launch into his pitch.

Cutting him off before he had a chance to speak, Klink announced harshly, "I am required by the Geneva Convention to inform you in advance of any transfers. You are so informed. Be prepared to leave with no further notice. I have put in a request to have you transferred to Colditz."

The window slammed shut.

* * *

The light snapped on in the middle of the night on the tenth day. Hogan blinked, staring blurrily at his watch. Three a.m. The key scraped in the lock. He sat up. What now? Nothing good. Nothing good at all, seemed the best guess.

The Keystone cops glowered in, appearing none too happy themselves to be up in the middle of the night. Rather than risk tangling with this bad-mood pair when they were really in a bad mood, Hogan moved quickly to comply with the gruff order to lean against the back wall.

Had his boys done something to get the goons in a snit, Hogan wondered as he was rudely searched. Then Keystone cop #2 yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Colditz, he realized with a sinking dread. Klink really was sending him to the genuinely-escape-proof fortress castle. Or—Hogan's stomach gave a nauseating churn—had the Gestapo showed up? Visions of a road, a grove of trees, and a pistol barrel ice cold against his neck flashed unbidden through his mind. Hogan fought back a surge of fear. Even if he was being taken to Colditz, if the Gestapo or SS were to guard him through the transfer… what were the odds he'd arrive to the castle alive? He had to keep a clear head; had to watch for openings, options.

The grip of his least-favorite guards was rock-solid as they escorted him out of the cooler into the dark compound. Was it his imagination, or were the searchlights purposely avoiding the area between the cooler and the Kommandant's quarters? No witnesses.

Barracks Two… a guard stood in front of the door. Not Schultz. It didn't mean the boys weren't watching, but in the middle of the night? Quiet? Without warning? They probably weren't.

Hogan would have sighed with relief at the sight of Sergeant Schultz standing on the porch of Klink's quarters, would have, save for more of those disturbing images intruding. But Schultz seemed back in true form, studying Hogan sorrowfully as the guards led him up the steps. Clucking sadly, Schultz told the guards to remove the handcuffs. Hogan locked eyes with Schultz, hoping to hold the sympathetic connection; to read truth in the big sergeant.

"Ah, Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant wishes to see you," Schultz said, sounding for all the world as though nothing unusual had happened and Hogan had just stepped out of his barracks instead of being dragged out of the cooler in chains in the middle of the night. Not the transfer to Colditz? Somehow he wasn't seeing a big farewell scene in the making, not after the terse way Klink informed him of the transfer. So if not Colditz, then what? He'd never been afraid of Klink before. Should he be afraid of him now? Klink had not harmed him. He'd scared the hell out of him on that road, but Klink had also likely saved him from the same fate as the murdered fifty from Stalag III. He'd certainly saved him from an even worse fate with the Gestapo, with Hochstetter, if Hogan's real identity had become known there in Düsseldorf. Schultz reached for the doorknob. Hogan swallowed. Time to face the music. Everything could be back to normal. He could trust Klink.

In no mood to trust 'normal', or the Kommandant, Hogan remained frozen in place. "What's going on, Schultz?" he demanded.

The kindly expression slipped into an uncomfortable one and Hogan noted Schultz wouldn't meet his eyes. "I know nothing, Colonel," Schultz murmured. He was lying, Hogan decided. "The Kommandant asked to see you. That's all."

Asked? Not ordered? "Come on, Schultz," Hogan insisted. "Tell me what this is about."

"Really, Colonel Hogan, I do not know. Just, please, go in and see Kommandant Klink," Schultz said.

"Schultz." Hogan drew out the name in an ordering tone. He didn't move toward the door.

Sighing shortly, Schultz whispered, "I honestly do not know. But…" He hesitated. "I think the Kommandant might be in trouble."

_Aren't we all? _"Well, there's news," Hogan muttered as he mustered up his gumption to go in.

Face the music, indeed, Hogan considered as he stepped into Klink's quarters. Hogan squinted through the dim light. Only one lamp shown in a corner with the rest of the room shrouded in shadows. Klink sat in an easy chair staring down at his violin resting on his lap. Was Klink after a captive audience—literally—for a violin recital? Ha! Maybe the stint in the cooler wasn't the punishment. This was.

The absurd twitch of humor faded immediately. Klink didn't even glance up as Hogan closed the door. Hogan stepped further into the room. Stopping, he peered at the Kommandant. Klink's face was pale and he looked like he hadn't slept in quite some time. Something was wrong. That is, Hogan amended to himself, something more, new, was wrong.

After waiting a minute to be noticed, Hogan ventured, "Colonel Klink?"

Shaking himself as though woken from a dream, Klink finally looked up. "Yes. Hogan. Thank you for coming. Please sit." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have some coffee," Klink said, pointing to an elaborate Meissen coffee service on a side table. "It's the last," Klink added with a peculiar chuckle completely devoid of humor. The chuckle took on a faint edge of hysteria. "Last of the black market coffee. Last of the black market anything."

This was just getting bizarre, Hogan thought. Ignoring the coffee, he sat down and focused wholly on Klink. For the umpteenth time in recent history, he asked himself just what the hell was going on here? Had Klink gotten caught dealing with blackmarketeers? It was hardly even a crime for someone in his position. Certainly none of the visiting generals or field marshals questioned Klink's ability to serve a splendid feast for them amidst tight rationing. It was expected. Even if he got caught at it, a few well-placed payoffs and he'd be in the clear again. Of course, this was Klink, and if anyone could foul up a simple bribe, he'd manage it. Was he after Hogan's scheming skills to bail him out?

No. Nothing that simple. Whatever it was, it wasn't shallow or superficial. It hit Klink down to the very core of his being.

Klink appeared to become lost again in whatever it was he was seeing in that violin. An undefined fear began growing in Hogan. Had something else dreadful happened in the ten days he'd been cut off from the world? A dozen and one horrific possibilities flashed through his mind.

"Kommandant Klink," Hogan strove to keep his voice even and low, "tell me what's happened. What's wrong?"

Klink took a shuddering breath. "Do you see this violin, Hogan?" Hogan stared, uncomprehending, as Klink ran a hand gently over the polished wood of the instrument. "I've had it since I was young. It was made for me by a man named Herr Sauer. Herr Otto Sauer." Klink let out a faint chuckle. "You know what the word means, 'sauer', yes? 'Sour' in English. But the instruments Herr Sauer made always sang sweet."

Hogan decided this was not the right time to dispute that point. He sat quietly, waiting to see where Klink was going with this. Of all the possibilities about why he'd been dragged here from the cooler in the middle of the night, chitchat about a violinmaker most definitely had not made the list.

"He also played," Klink continued, his voice little more than a monotone whisper. "Herr Sauer was both craftsman and artist. When he played it was as though I could hear the voices of the angels. He taught me. Taught me to play," Klink's eyes met Hogan's briefly, a faint flicker of amusement in them, "as well as he could. But the most precious gift he gave me was the love of the music. Herr Sauer was neither rich nor famous. He had a small shop and enough to get by. His wife had passed away. His son was grown, moved away with a family of his own. Herr Sauer was alone, but I think not lonely. He had his craft, and he had his music. And it was enough. He was a good man. Kind, and gentle, and good."

Looking up again, this time Klink held Hogan's gaze steadily and seriously. With a small, sad smile, Klink said, "When I play this violin, you hear Wilhelm Klink play. I hear Herr Sauer." He fell silent, absently tracing the violin's edge with one finger.

Several times Hogan started to speak but stopped, hunting for the right words. Whatever had happened to this violinmaker had Klink deeply upset. This Herr Sauer must be special to the Kommandant, indeed. Must be… no. _Must have been._ Past tense. Klink was speaking of him in the past tense. "What happened to him, Colonel?" Hogan eventually asked. Killed in a recent bombing raid?

"He was just a harmless old man," Klink whispered.

Oh, dear God. Hogan squeezed his eyes closed a moment, suddenly realizing. "Kommandant," he asked, "was Herr Sauer Jewish?"

Klink nodded without looking up. "This may be the last violin made by Herr Sauer that still exists." Taking a deep breath, Klink finally seemed at last to find a well of strength, looking up at Hogan without flinching or looking away. "Have you heard of Kristallnacht?" Klink asked. Hogan nodded. "The night of broken glass, it's called…" Klink said. "Herr Sauer's shop was smashed. Every instrument in it destroyed, piled up, broken and burned. Those who had bought his instruments in the past brought them and threw them on the fire. How that must have hurt him." Klink appeared to Hogan on the verge of tears. "I saw it. I stood to the side and watched it. Could do nothing." He shook his head. "That's not true. I did nothing. Didn't even try." Klink paused a moment, apparently collecting himself. "His son was killed that night, in another city, leaving a wife and three small children. They came to stay with Herr Sauer, in his ruined shop. Everything changed. Everything broken."

"Then what happened?" Hogan nudged. It was nearly six years since Kristallnacht. Surely Klink was not realizing only now what had been happening to the German Jews before that, and after, was he? Could he have been that oblivious? That self-absorbed?

Meeting Hogan's eyes, Klink said seriously, "It's not an easy thing for a man to accept he's been a blind fool." Who, Hogan thought, frowning as he silently asked the question. You? Or Herr Sauer? Klink must have read the question on his face, for a smile barely twitched his lips. "Me, Hogan. Until that night I'd heard of things taking place, bad things. But it someone else, somewhere else. It was _them._ A faceless, nameless 'them' who could be blamed and accused. Then all of a sudden, it wasn't 'them'. It was Herr Sauer. A man I loved as much—more—than my own father.

"Herr Sauer disappeared a short time after that," Klink went on. "He and his daughter-in-law, and the three grandchildren, a boy and two girls, they just vanished. No one thought anything of it. Such things happened. Maybe he'd fled the country, though it was really too late by then. Or maybe they just disappeared, as so many did."

Hogan's eyes narrowed, appraising Klink carefully. "But they didn't just disappear." Hogan said. "You hid them. Didn't you?" Even as he spoke the words, Hogan knew they were true, and it stunned him nevertheless. Klink? Hiding fugitive Jews? All these years in silence? Could it be true?

Shaking his head, Klink said, "No. I _arranged_ for them to be hidden, would be the better way to say it. I have not seen Herr Sauer myself in six years time. I have never met his daughter-in-law nor the grandchildren." Klink chuckled bitterly. "I'm just not brave enough to take such a risk myself. I'm not that brave and I'm not that noble. It was an impulse. Perhaps a foolish one. No, definitely a foolish impulse. A stupid, blind impulsive action. And I have regretted it more times than I can count in the years since." Klink looked at Hogan sternly. "Don't try to apply some sort of noble motives to me. Because there aren't any. I hide behind others, at a distance, providing money, connections, and a place to hide. I made a stupid mistake in a moment of sentimental weakness and then couldn't undo it without risking myself. Not noble. Not honorable. Stupid. Then, in turn, I found myself in a position to be blackmailed to continue the foolish error. You wonder why the camp funds are always so short? Why I 'cook the books', I think your expression is, as I do? It's not for my own nest egg for Switzerland or South America as I imagine you believe. How I wish it were! No, once they knew they had a Luftwaffe colonel on the hook, the price kept rising. There was no way out, so I keep to the coward's way."

Sounds pretty damned brave to me, Hogan surprised himself by thinking. And a bit noble, despite the Kommandant's protests to the contrary. The risk to Klink was not greatly diminished by this distance he claimed. And he could have turned in the 'blackmailers', as he called them—doubling as his black market connections—as easily as he could have turned in Herr Sauer. But he couldn't free himself from the blackmailers without endangering Herr Sauer. So…

"What went wrong, Kommandant?" Hogan asked with sudden insight.

"They were found out," Klink said dully. "About two weeks ago."

Hogan turned away and groaned.

"Yes," Klink said. "I'm afraid I took some of my upset out on you."

An icy chill suddenly seized Hogan. On the road, Klink had said, _"Every time you fall under suspicion, I fall under suspicion. It's not just your life at stake, Hogan. It's mine. And Schultz's. And our families'. My mother. Schultz's wife. His children. All could be forfeit. Because of you. Because of your activities."_

A dozen and _two_ horrific possibilities. He had to ask. He didn't want to ask. "Kommandant Klink…" Hogan began slowly, "were Herr Sauer and his family found because of something I did?"

"What?" Klink stared at him, then slowly shook his head. "No, Hogan. They were just… found."

Hogan let out a long breath, then asked, "Sir. Why are you telling me this?"

Intensely, Klink said, "Because I learned today the youngest child, a little girl, got away. She's hidden at my mother's house. It shames me to say it, but my mother will turn that child in to protect herself." Klink met Hogan's eyes unflinchingly. "It shames me more to say it, but I considered telling her to do so." He stared back down at the violin, a look of utter misery crossing his face. "I actually considered it, just to be done with it all," he ended faintly.

"How does this involve me?" Hogan asked.

"No games tonight, Hogan," Klink said flatly, looking back up with a firm resolution in his eyes. "I know you have means to contact the Underground, or… others… who could get that child to safety. I'm asking you to do so."

_Trap!_ Hogan's brain screamed at him even as he held his expression without twitch.

"What makes you think she's in danger?" Hogan watched Klink closely. "What makes you think the others are dead?"

Klink snorted derisively. "You cannot tell me you haven't heard the rumors about those SS camps in Poland, about what's being done at them."

"I've heard 'em," Hogan said coolly. "But it's rumors. Nothing solid. What makes you so sure?"

With a hard expression, Klink said, "Numbers. I'm an accountant, Hogan, a bookkeeper. One thing I know well is numbers. Numbers cannot lie. The numbers going in. _Not_ coming out. Those camps not getting any bigger. Where are the numbers—_the people_—going? Only rumors and guesses, it's true. But then I heard about the fifty Allied POWs murdered in cold blood… That's no rumor. If the Gestapo and the SS would do that, there's nothing they wouldn't do.

"I'll do whatever you say," Klink went on, "provide whatever you need, not see whatever you don't want me to see. Just please get that child to safety."

Hogan felt time freeze as it had on that dark road when his existence was a finger's squeeze on a trigger away from ending. It was a trap. It was a trap. It was a trap. Or… if it wasn't a trap, it was a damned huge risk for one little girl when hundreds of lives could be on the line if there was a misstep. The numbers didn't add up.

Weren't those London's exact reasons for ordering him not to rescue Tiger?

"Why, Klink?" he asked harshly. Klink was far too protective of his own hide to chance it on such a big unknown. "You said yourself you've never even met this kid. Why take the chance?"

"As this violin is the last of Herr Sauer's work that yet exists, that child is the last of him." Klink's hand rested on the violin protectively. "And I owe him," he said.

* * *

"It's a trap," Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau said in unison. Kinchloe just frowned.

"He had me in a trap," Hogan retorted. "Why would he let me out of one to set me up in another?"

Hogan rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "I saw Klink's face. And heard him talk. I don't think he's that good of an actor." He rolled his eyes and allowed, "Maybe better of an actor than I ever gave him credit for, but… no, not that good. No, he's not trying to trap me."

"No," LeBeau put in darkly, "just all your contacts and connections. I don't trust it. Monsieur Kommandant is a dirty Boche like all the rest."

"Can't trust a one of 'em," Newkirk added.

"Like Schnitzer?" Hogan snapped. "Or the rest of our Underground contacts around Hammelburg?" Hogan toned down his sudden burst of anger with an effort.

"They aren't wearing German uniforms," Carter said, as dubious as the rest.

"Like Morrison?" Hogan asked more quietly.

"You're barmy to fall for this load of codswallop," Newkirk insisted, not backing down an inch.

"Oui, mad," LeBeau muttered.

Hogan made an exasperated sound.

"Colonel," Carter put in quietly. Hogan turned toward him. "There was what happened on the road back from Düsseldorf. Then he locked you up, in isolation, for a couple weeks. Tells you he's sending you to the hardest prison in Germany. Then—_then_—he turns around and asks you to help with something you've never even suspected him of being involved in? Gosh darn it, Colonel… Why are you so sure it's not a trap?"

It was a long speech for Carter and Hogan took it seriously. "You've all seen him when he was really trying to trap us, or catch us at something—it was painful how obvious and clumsy he was at it."

"Maybe on purpose," Kinchloe murmured. "Trying to tip us off?"

Studying Kinch, Hogan said to him, "How do you weigh in on this, Kinch? You've had some opinions and theories about Klink. What do you make of this? Is Klink for real? Would he hide—or pay to hide—Jews?" Hogan sighed extravagantly. "Maybe he's playing me and has been one hundred percent, right from Day One. Maybe I am crazy on this. Maybe he drove me nuts these last couple weeks—" And with the way he behaved in London? All setup for the big act? "—and I can't see straight. So you tell me? What do you make of this?"

Kinch considered it a long time in his quietly analytical way. Hogan waited him out, and motioned the others to as well. Finally, Kinch said, "This camp has never been segregated."

"Colonel Hogan wouldn't stand for that sort of…" Carter started.

"_Before_ Colonel Hogan was here," Kinch cut him off firmly. "Klink never segregated this camp. He could have. In fact, he should have. The Geneva Convention not only allows it, it practically insists on it. Klink would have been behaving entirely properly had he segregated this camp by not only race, but by religion and nationality." Kinch scanned around the table at them all, each in turn, ending with LeBeau. "In other POW camps French Jews and French Christians are separated. They aren't here and never were." He glanced over to Carter and Hogan. "Parts of our own country are segregated, blacks from whites. Kommandant Klink never did that."

"So you think he's on the level?" Hogan asked softly.

"Or just never read the Geneva Convention," Newkirk inserted in a stage whisper.

Kinch took a deep breath. "I don't think Klink is any sort of saint, or crusader. I don't know that he thinks much one way or the other about half the stuff the Nazis are doing. But I guess I do think he's the sort who will choose to do the decent thing if he can."

"Not exactly a ringing endorsement," Hogan allowed. He turned to the others. "Listen… the rest of you can stay clear. I'm not gonna order anyone to be in on this. It's not an official assignment. It's strictly personal." Hogan shrugged. "I'm already in trouble with London over disobeying their orders, what's one more gonna matter?" He took a deep breath and stood up, turning to head to his quarters. He paused. "If this is a trap… well, it's one I'm going to walk into willingly."

"But why, sir?" Kinch asked softly. "Why risk it for Klink?"

Hogan smiled softly. "I owe him."

* * *

"Kommandant," Hogan said by way of greeting a few days later. Klink stood by himself, near the wire, staring off at the horizon. "Enjoying the sunset, sir?"

"It's splendid," Klink responded tartly. "The smoke in the air from today's firebombing of Frankfurt is making for a truly remarkable sunset."

"Well then," Hogan said crisply, "if we're lucky they'll hit Leipzig tonight and we can have a splendid sunrise, too."

Klink glared at him. Hogan threw back a challenging grin. Klink's fist tightened in frustration.

With a mocking salute, Hogan turned to go. As he moved past Klink, he added, low, "The girl's out. She's safe."

Shoulders sagging a moment, Klink whispered, "Thank you," to Hogan. As he started to step away Hogan saw Klink close his eyes, then flick a glance heavenward. "Vielen Dank," he murmured. It wasn't to Hogan.

* * *

Hogan stood in the compound, arms folded over his chest, listening. He cocked his head and concentrated on the music drifting from the Kommandant's quarters.

"Message from London," Kinch said, ambling up. "Some info on troop movements they want us to get." As Hogan took the note, Kinch looked toward Klink's quarters, commenting, "That's not bad. His playing has improved."

"Has it?" Hogan said, some surprise creeping into his voice. "I thought it was just me."

To be continued...


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

**Late June 1944**

"…so after the Gestapo hauled you away, I got the papers you dropped, then snuck into that apartment building to warn off Tiger," Sergeant Kinchloe told Colonel Hogan, not for the first time. Kinch stopped.

Hogan folded his arms over his chest and stared outward at the fence. Kinch and Hogan rested on some crates piled on the sunny side of Barracks Three. After the long stretch in the cooler, followed by days of rain and gloom, and nights out on the private mission, Kinch understood the colonel craved sunshine and warmth. It was the rest of what he craved that had Kinch blushing and hedging. Hogan frowned as he listened to Kinch's tale, but then wanted to hear it again. "Go on," Hogan urged. "I want to hear the rest. _All of it, _this time. Tiger gave me the short version the other night when I met with her, but she told it like a battle report and there wasn't time for a, uh… reenactment. So now I want the details."

"Sir…" Kinch drew out the word. "I would really rather not…"

"That's an order, Sergeant," Hogan snapped. "What happened next? Every detail."

"A gentleman doesn't…" Kinch started evasively.

"A _direct_ order," Hogan said sharply.

Kinch laughed out loud. Not, Kinch considered, the reaction the colonel usually expected to a direct order but he couldn't help himself.

"Colonel," Kinch said, still chuckling. "Permission to speak freely?"

"I absolutely order you to speak freely," Hogan grated. "That's the point."

With another chuckle, Kinch said, "If I may say, sir, you blew the unquestioning obedience to direct orders where Tiger's concerned. I am _not_ telling you what happened when I went in to warn Tiger."

Hogan let a grin crack his stern expression. "Then just confirm or deny: Is it true a bubble bath was involved?"

Kinch's uncontained grin and the deepening color of his face surely offered Colonel Hogan the confirmation he wanted. For the details he'd have to use his imagination to fill in for himself. Hogan sighed happily. In fact, he was probably doing just that, in slow, exacting detail.

"She is an attractive young lady," Kinch offered without inflection.

"Don't I know it," Hogan murmured, appearing to lose himself in those precise, exacting, slow details again… Kinch studied the dust of the compound beneath his scuffed boots. Yes, well… it had been a long war. Kinch did not tell the colonel the other part of the tale—Tiger, as expected, had immediately proposed they attempt a rescue of Hogan from the Gestapo. But Tiger accepted her 'no' order as the necessity it was and got away and clear.

"Whatcha talkin' about?" Carter cut in as he, LeBeau and Newkirk approached.

"Girls," the colonel answered immediately. Kinch grinned.

"Me favorite topic," Newkirk said, perching himself on another crate. "New Years in London with all the girls been pining after ol' Peter, that's me plan."

"No special one?" Hogan asked. "No one-n-only?"

"Not figuring to limit meself yet. Plenty of time for that later." Newkirk grinned. He turned to LeBeau. "Same for you, eh mate? All the girls in Pair-ee waiting on you?"

LeBeau made that distinctly French 'harumph' sound of his. "_Free_ Paris," LeBeau said, a distant gleam in his eyes. Five more seconds and he'd burst into a chorus of _La Marseillaise_, Kinch thought, but LeBeau only sighed theatrically. "Soon. Very soon. Then home. But, no, mon ami… only one girl for Louis LeBeau from now on."

"Who?"

With a look that told Kinch he thought they were all crazy not to know, LeBeau said clearly, "Marya, of course."

Hogan shuddered, then did his best to hide it, Kinch noted. Newkirk made no effort to hide his reaction.

"I'm sure you two will be very happy together," Colonel Hogan told LeBeau with what Kinch noted was his very best lie-straight-faced-to-the-Germans expression. LeBeau had seen it too many times to be taken in, Kinch decided, but accepted it graciously anyhow.

"Gosh golly and heck," Carter put in, apparently having missed the whole Marya interlude. He wore a thousand—many thousands—miles distant expression. "I hope like the dickens to be back home in North Dakota this Christmas." He sighed longingly. "Finally _real winter_ for Christmas. Not this pathetic stuff that passes for winter here," he said. It took some time for everyone to stop choking on their laughter.

"I got a date with a princess in Toledo," Kinchloe said. They all murmured their support of the long-cherished hope of his. Turning to Colonel Hogan, Kinch asked, even though he suspected he knew the answer, "What about you, Colonel?"

Hogan's expression turned inward. A somewhat dopey half smile crept across his face. "Tiger," he said. "And I don't care where."

They let the sappy moment hang between them for a bit, then Newkirk cheerfully broke in. "When the camp is liberated you better head on out quick, gov'ner, afore Fräulein Hilda finds out she's not gonna be Frau Hogan."

With a chuckle which immediately shifted into an alarmed squawk , Hogan said, "Oh, she knows it's not serious… Um… I hope." His eyes darted around. "Maybe. Be a shame if Stalag 13's only 'shot while trying to escape' report was because the camp secretary shot _me!"_

Kinch saw Colonel Hogan's expression go distant again and knew he again fixed on Tiger. "Been a long time since I thought about settling down with one woman," he commented. The others let his serious reverie stand.

The sound of a car nearing the camp caught their attention. A familiar car drove through the gates, stopping in a cloud of dust in front of the Kommandant's office. General Burkhalter, accompanied by an unusually large number of guards stepped from the car.

"Wonder what that's about?" Hogan questioned aloud, but without any real concern. He stepped away from the others to get a better view around the corner of Barracks Three.

When he was out of earshot, Newkirk turned to Kinch. "Think the colonel and Tiger really can make a go of it?"

Kinch shrugged. "Maybe," he said but the others heard his unspoken 'no'. Newkirk and LeBeau muttered their agreement at the gloomy forecast.

"What?!" Carter looked as shocked as he possibly could be as he peered around at them. "Don't you believe the colonel and Tiger are really in love."

Shifting uncomfortably on the crate, Kinch said, "Oh, yeah. They're in love." He frowned over at Colonel Hogan who stood with his arms folded over his chest as he watched the Kommandant's office. "Passionately," Kinch added, remembering the show that night in Fulda. "Yup… Papa Bear and Tiger are deeply and truly in love. But—" He glanced around at each of the others. "—Rob and Marie? They don't know each other." Kinch gave a sad snort. "They've never even met."

"Wartime romance," LeBeau murmured, shaking his head sorrowfully, apparently missing the irony of his own claims of impending marriage to the tall, very tall, really ever so much taller than LeBeau, brazen Russian agent Marya.

Kinch smiled at LeBeau. Then Kinch's smile faded. Colonel Hogan had suddenly gone very tense. "Something's wrong," Kinch said, standing with the others to move to the colonel's side.

* * *

A sinking sensation… Hogan felt the bottom drop out so quickly it made him dizzy. He couldn't hear their words, but the gestures were emphatically clear. Klink pranced nervously on the steps of his office, riding crop clenched tightly in his hand, arguing vigorously. Burkhalter shouted at Klink, then turned and pointed—no mistaking—at Hogan.

Klink threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender and motioned to Schultz. The scene replayed with Klink shouting and Schultz throwing his arms up in surrender as he motioned to two other guards.

"Oh… crap," Hogan muttered, almost automatically censoring his language in front of the others.

"What is it, sir?" Kinch asked as his men gathered around him.

Two guards marched toward Hogan. Not just any guards, Hogan noted, his two personal buddies—the Keystone cops. Number 2 pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt as they approached.

For a count of ten after you jump out of the crashing plane, before you open your chute, you just fall. Nine, eight…

"I have the uncomfortable feeling Klink forgot to cancel my transfer to Colditz," Hogan said dully. Seven, six…

"He is still Klink after all," he added. Four, three…

"Come with," was all Keystone cop #1 demanded, in German, in the sharp ordering tone which suited the language so well. _Komm mit._

"What's going on?" Hogan asked them as pleasantly as he could manage. _Was ist los?_

Keystone cop #2 favored Hogan with a flat smile. He held up the handcuffs. "Please resist," he said sweetly. _Bitte, wehren Sie sich._

Just as sweetly, Hogan said, in English, "Not a chance, chum." He turned and obediently put his hands behind his back. Once facing away from the guards, he closed his eyes and let out the sigh he'd been holding back. One, zero… and the chute didn't open. Instead cold metal closed around his wrists calling up shiveringly helpless sensations with it.

"Do _nothing_," Hogan ordered his men. "I mean it: Nothing!" As he was hauled away, Hogan locked eyes with Kinchloe. "And _that_ is a direct order."

* * *

"We're not gonna just do nothing, are we?!" LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk demanded of Kinch almost immediately, each phrasing it somewhat differently but with the same gist to the question. Their back-up teams from Barracks Two and Three drew near, not intruding but standing by in case they were needed. Kinch waved them off.

"It is what we're going to do," Kinch said, low. "The colonel ordered it. We do nothing."

"Orders…" Newkirk's grumble began.

"I mean it, Peter," Kinch said. "We obey Colonel Hogan on this. At least for now. If it was the Gestapo hauling him out of here, okay… we go all out to get him away from them. But this is the Luftwaffe. As long as he's still in their custody we got a chance of wrangling a transfer back—or an escape. What we can't do is blow the operation and expose it. Not now. It would put the colonel in even more danger, along with every other man in this camp." Kinch glared back at their disapproving scowls. "We wait," he said sternly. "Let Colonel Hogan… and Kommandant Klink… play this out."

* * *

"Why General Burkhalter, what a pleasure to see you again, sir!" Colonel Hogan said cheerfully, as though he'd been invited in for tea, instead of being dragged into the office by two goons. After bringing him here, they then made him wait in the outer office a long time, with Fräulein Hilda, all moist-eyed, studiously refusing to look at him, along with a twitchy Schultz who emphatically 'knew nothing'. "I was just saying to the Kommandant, it's been too long."

Burkhalter chuckled. It had an evil sound. Hogan purposely let his smile fade into a glare as the Keystone cops yanked him to a halt in front of Klink's desk. The Kommandant looked so tightly wound it appeared he might shatter at any moment. He didn't meet Hogan's eyes; just fidgeted with papers on his desk. The transfer orders?

"I must say, Hogan, I've never enjoyed seeing you more," Burkhalter said, repeating that nasty chuckle. He leaned back in a chair beside Klink's desk, folded his hands over his chest and squinted with pig-eyed delight at Hogan, still being held fast between the two guards.

"You didn't need to handcuff Colonel Hogan," Klink dryly told the guards. "I just said to bring him to the office."

"They enjoy it," Hogan said, letting the sarcasm drip out unchecked. He twisted to stab a glare at #2. "Especially that one." The guard stabbed an answering glare back.

"Well, take them off…" Klink started.

"No, no," Burkhalter cut in. "Leave them be. I rather enjoy seeing the colonel, for once, fully aware that he is, in fact, a prisoner." Hogan scowled at the general. Payback for the Mustang? Yeah, all right… the general owed him one for that. How far would the payback go? All the way to Colditz. Freefall. Chute still not open.

Burkhalter went on, his tone oily smooth and smarmily nasty. "And I'm sure Colonel Hogan will enjoy the hospitality at Colditz just as much. We'll see how clever he is after a few months chained to the floor of a damp, dark dungeon." Burkhalter's eyes burned into him. Hogan swallowed hard; couldn't contain the reaction. It showed, and it drew another evil chuckle from Burkhalter.

Klink cleared his throat and stared downward, fidgeting with his papers again. Nothing from you, Klink? Hogan glanced over. Or was Klink's 'forgetting' to cancel the transfer no accident?

"You two," Burkhalter snapped to the guards. "Dismissed."

Saluting, the two left the office, depositing the handcuff key on Klink's desk. Hogan refocused on Burkhalter and Klink. Both looked at him with unreadable expressions—both of them employing that Kraut-ish ability to contain and control.

"I was surprised," Burkhalter said conversationally, "to suddenly receive a request from Kommandant Klink to transfer you to Colditz. Especially when no escape attempts by you had been reported—" Hogan noticed Klink squirm a bit. "—or any other violations of rules, or acts of insubordination, had been reported. Yet in came an urgent request to transfer you immediately. Against my standing orders." _Standing orders?_ Hogan glanced at Klink who pointedly stared down at his desk.

"Then," Burkhalter went on, "when I call to find out what's going on here, I'm find out you're serving thirty days in the cooler, thirty days that hasn't expired yet, I might note, and am told the transfer isn't really necessary because you're—what was the quote?—'thoroughly cowed'." Klink blushed.

"Oh, yes sir," Hogan put in, finally getting caught up to the direction all of this had been taking, or so he hoped. The general had standing orders _not_ to send him to Colditz? Well, wasn't Klink just full of surprises. "The Kommandant taught me a lesson I won't soon forget. No more trouble from me. No sir-ee. I'll just sit here quietly and wait for the Allied tanks to roll up to the gate." He couldn't help himself from adding the last. The 'thoroughly cowed' bit was all an act anyhow and everyone in the room knew it.

Burkhalter glowered at him. "It's not a game anymore, Hogan," he said softly.

"So I've heard," Hogan answered dryly.

"Yes," Burkhalter said, throwing a glance at Klink. "I suppose you have. I sometimes wonder who's really running this camp."

The pause went on far too long. Hogan gave Klink a nudging look. Stirring, Klink pronounced firmly, "I am, of course, Herr General." It would have been more convincing, Hogan considered, if Klink hadn't glanced at Hogan for confirmation first. And yet… Hogan had just had a very convincing demonstration of the Kommandant's power and authority in this camp within these past few weeks.

Twisting a bit against the cuffs that still reminded him, as the general said, he really was a prisoner, Hogan asked Burkhalter, "So are you taking me to Colditz?"

After a pause obviously calculated to make Hogan fret, Burkhalter said, "Not just yet. But I have revised my orders on that point. Kommandant Klink now has authority to take you there any time he deems it necessary." The chute finally opened. Burkhalter gave Klink a long, studied look. "My other orders concerning Colonel Hogan still stand."

With a grunt, the general hoisted himself to his feet, reaching for his cap. Stepping near Hogan, General Burkhalter stared at him, eye to eye. Hogan met the look steadily. "You be careful," he told Hogan. "Keep that dungeon in mind."

* * *

Klink let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding a long time, and stared unseeing down at the papers on his desk. Letting the silence continue until they heard the general's car start up and move away, Hogan interrupted his thoughts—or lack of them—with, "Umm… Kommandant?" Klink looked up. Hogan gestured with his cuffed hands toward the key. "You mind?" he asked somewhat hesitantly.

With a fortifying breath, Klink stood. He moved around the desk and picked up the key. "Colditz doesn't have a dungeon," he told Hogan as he unlocked the cuffs. "And they don't keep prisoners in chains," he added. Not quite sure why he did it, he dropped the handcuffs down over the spike on his helmet and returned to sit at his desk. "Most of their solitary confinement cells really have quite nice views. And they're meticulous about adhering to the Geneva Convention."

"Still a pretty harsh place, though," Hogan commented in a half-questioning way. He turned, without asking permission, of course, to the decanter of schnapps and poured a glass, downed it in a gulp, then filled two. He handed Klink one glass, then pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down, sipping his slowly. Hogan did look shaken, Klink noted. "Really escape-proof," Hogan said, clearly still pondering the threat of the dreaded prison castle hanging over his head.

With a snort, Klink said, "No, it's not. I believe Colditz holds the record for the most successful escapes from any Stalag."

Hogan's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well, there's a bit of news you don't generally hear."

"On purpose," Klink told him. "Oh," he waggled his finger at Hogan, "don't think you could just walk out of there, though. They take security very seriously. But they also have the most determined, most serious escape artists in the country." He held the glass of schnapps up, regarding it. "That's why General Burkhalter assigned you here in the first place, when rightly you should have been sent straight there."

"To Stalag 13, the camp with the genuine no-escape record. And the toughest Kommandant…"

Klink cut him off. Not that he didn't enjoy hearing the spiel, just not now. "Because from here you wouldn't escape; wouldn't leave your command."

Hogan pondered that, then asked, "What are Burkhalter's other standing orders concerning me?"

Steadily, Klink said, "To keep you alive and keep you out of the hands of the Gestapo."

"Well, how 'bout that," Hogan commented. "Tinker to Evers to Chance," Hogan muttered, low, to himself, then louder, "So you put in for that transfer to Colditz to…"

"Keep you alive and keep you out of the hands of the Gestapo," Klink answered promptly. "And to give you a legitimate means and motivation to escape back to England without damaging my record or making it appear I in any way aided you."

"I appreciate that, Kommandant," Hogan said sincerely. "But you wouldn't last a week without me here."

"How long will I last with you here?" Klink asked. "How long will you last?" Hogan didn't answer. "Before you were brought in, the general told me Major Hochstetter has been recalled to Berlin. He's been assigned to investigate and solve the rash of sabotage and other incidents around Stal… around this area." Klink stared hard at Hogan, hoping the message got through. "And we all know who Hochstetter suspects of… everything."

"Hochstetter's a nut," Hogan said coolly.

"As may be," Klink answered without hesitation. "But is he wrong?"

Their look held. Hogan didn't give an inch. No, Klink decided. No admissions of the full truth today. Just as well.

After a moment, Klink raised his untouched glass of schnapps. "To a speedy end to the war," he said.

"Better luck next time," Hogan answered reflexively.

Quelling a smile that tried to break his stern demeanor, Klink turned and aimed the toast toward the picture of Hitler on the wall, "And to the Führer…"

He saw Hogan grin broadly. "I think I can fill the rest of that toast in for myself," Hogan said.

"No doubt you can," Klink said, clicking their glasses together.

* * *

"A near miss, eh, Colonel," Kinchloe commented to Hogan as they sat in Hogan's office that evening.

Hogan shook his head. "I have the damnedest feeling like I just got dressed down in front of the brass—our brass, not the Krauts. And not for that ersatz escape attempt. For… I don't know… violating orders."

"Maybe," Kinch said. "I've been thinking…"

"Oh, I do wish you'd stop that," Hogan cut in.

With a grin, Kinch went on, "London was furious with you over violating those orders not to rescue Tiger. And now… it's like it's all gone. Done. Dealt with. Records filed. Forms stamped. Reprimand duly noted. Dressing down… whatever. It's in the past with really nothing more from them about it."

"They are more than welcome to send a squad of MPs here to take me back to London for a court martial. Glad to oblige them," Hogan said.

Kinch scratched at his moustache and frowned. "Burkhalter didn't need to come here to scare you with that Colditz threat, especially when he didn't know from Klink what had been going on. But he did come here to, as you put it, give you a dressing down in front of the brass. Even if it's the brass from the wrong army." Kinch shrugged at Hogan. "What if it wasn't for the 'escape', or for provoking Klink? What if it was for disobeying London's orders?"

Hogan stared at him. "You've been down in those tunnels too long. What are you getting at?"

"Nimrod," Kinch said. "Remember when we thought maybe Klink…"

"Ridiculous."

"Impossible."

"Insane."

"Agreed," Kinch said. "But think back to the first Nimrod incident… Other than Klink, who were the others in and out of the camp who knew what was going on and could have put those plans where they were? Hochstetter…"

"Not a chance," Hogan said. "Psycho Gestapo thug right down to the ice water in his veins."

"…and Burkhalter," Kinch concluded.

"Huh." Hogan looked distantly thoughtful. "You know, from the start, the setup here seemed too serendipitous. The incompetent Kommandant who's half-collaborator, and more than half anti-Nazi. Schultz as our barrack's guard. All of you with the tunnels…"

"And who assigned you here?" Kinch added. "Got you away from the Gestapo, put you here, and keeps you here."

"Whoa! They were gonna transfer me out that other time, on Burkhalter's okay," Hogan put in.

Kinch nodded. "Yeah. But with London's okay first, to replace you with Crittendon. Klink told me in Berlin that he'd been ordered by Burkhalter to cooperate with Morrison, I mean Teppel. If Burkhalter and Teppel were in cahoots, and we know Teppel—Morrison—was an American agent…"

Hogan gave a full body shudder. "I told you to knock off that thinking thing. It's very disturbing."

"Wait, Colonel," Kinch interrupted eagerly. "I've got more."

"Goody. What else? I mean, come on, Kinch… Burkhalter tried to get me to steal an airplane and turn it over to the Krauts. Does that sound like a top secret British agent to you?"

"What was the end result?" Kinch asked.

"You know…"

"Yes, I know. And so do you," Kinch said. "Their entire spy network in England was broken and the Germans didn't get the airplane. It occurred to me maybe that was Burkhalter's intent all along. Or when he dropped an atomic scientist right in our laps? Come on… who would put a guy working on a top secret project like that smack dab in the middle of one thousand enemy soldiers? Or how about when he put Klink in charge of security for that meeting of generals that got us a set of their plans. Seriously, sir, who would put Klink in charge of security for _anything_ if he didn't expect the end result to be, well, what it has always turned out to be? Even that thick-headed, arrogant Kraut would surely see the pattern by now, wouldn't he?"

Hogan just sighed and rubbed his temples. Maybe Klink's migraines were contagious. He couldn't dwell on this. His job wasn't to spy on the Allied intelligence network—or _imagined_ Allied intelligence network—it was to spy on the Germans. "_Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble_," he muttered part of the old poem to himself, "_Tinker to Evers to Chance..._"

* * *

**Late July 1944**

"You sent for me, sir?" Hogan asked as he swung open the Kommandant's office door. He stopped at the corner of Klink's desk and offered the obligatory salute. Klink glanced up from his paperwork but didn't respond in kind.

"Perhaps we could dispense with some of this formality," Klink said, sounding actually quite formal.

Lowering his hand, Hogan focused on Klink. He stared at a single sheet—a letter—amidst the scattered pile of paperwork on his desktop. Tense, nervous… not terribly unusual. Hogan stepped nearer the desk. Something was wrong (again). Dispense with some of this formality? Colonels in the German military didn't dispense with formality. They lived for formality.

"I mean," Klink went on after fidgeting with that letter, "after all this time, all this constant saluting seems so… not Gemütlichkeit."

Gemütlichkeit? Of all possible words to describe their association, that word was top of the not-on-the-list. The word didn't translate, not exactly, but it meant a sort of warm, fuzzy chumminess, which, if you got enough beer into them, the Germans could manage quite well… well, most of them—the ones who didn't go all homicidal and decide to conquer the world, that is. While Hogan was willing to admit to a tacit understanding between he and Klink, a certain amount of genuine respect, and an edge of something that might almost on certain occasions be similar to, if not in the near vicinity of, friendship (in a cautious, restricted, not entirely trusting way), but Gemütlichkeit?

Still not looking up, Klink said, "We've known each other some years now, after all, perhaps we could dispense with…" He trailed off and spun the letter around so it faced Hogan's direction.

Official. And certainly not something a POW was supposed to be reading, which, naturally, made Hogan all the more interested. He picked the letter up. Huh… It seemed Klink had answered once and for all the question of where he stood on Hitler and the Nazis. The letter was an order, actually, issued to all officers in all branches of the service. It was now mandated that instead of using their traditional form of salute they were required to use the Nazi salute. A direct backlash to the attempt on Hitler's life on the twentieth. The order demanded a visible outward sign of allegiance to the Führer from all German officers. And Klink didn't want to do it.

It did not surprise Hogan that Klink disliked the order. It did surprise him that he'd openly and knowingly defy it. Hmm… let's qualify that to _in front of Hogan_ he'd openly and knowingly defy it.

Setting the paper back on Klink's desk, he turned it back around. "Of course, sir," Hogan said casually, "a friendly wave or a nod would be so much more appropriate, all things considered."

"I'm glad you understand," Klink commented, then bustled about, straightening the papers on his desk. He dropped the offending order into a file which he closed firmly and set aside.

"On my way out I'll ask Hilda to file that… _somewhere_, if you like," Hogan said.

"If it's not too much trouble," Klink said distractedly, appearing to become involved in his other paperwork.

"No trouble at all," Hogan answered, then commented, "They executed Von Stauffenberg."

Without looking up, Klink said, "Yes. I know. The same day." He focused on Hogan briefly. "You're dismissed." He returned to his busy-work.

Deciding to push it a bit, Hogan toyed with Klink's spiked helmet a moment. "A terrible thing… I mean that Von Stauffenberg's plan didn't succeed." Klink tensed but said nothing. "At least this one wasn't an old buddy of yours."

Klink's head snapped up. "Hogan," he hissed. "Mind what you say. You never know who might be listening." He jerked a thumb toward the photograph of Hitler hanging crookedly on the wall.

Hogan's eyebrows raised. Two ways to take that—Klink gesturing toward the Führer's picture, implying anyone overheard speaking that way about the Führer would be in danger of his life. Or… Klink just pointed to Hogan's bug of this office.

Making a quick decision, Hogan stepped over to the photo, pulled it away from the wall as far as the wiring allowed, and yanked off one of the wires. He turned back to Klink. "There. No one's listening."

Klink stiffened, then crumpled, leaning back into his chair. He managed to appear both more and less uneasy all at the same time. Maybe it was just symptomatic of this country and these times—an uneasy tension in everything and everyone. "No one's listening," Klink echoed. "You're sure?"

With a nod, Hogan said, "I'm sure." He remained fixed on Klink, examining him closely.

"You have no idea how long it took me to spot that microphone," Klink commented. _Really no idea_. Hogan settled down in the chair opposite Klink and waited. "I felt such a fool," Klink went on. "I suspected, of course," _Of course?_ "You always know exactly when to come into the office. You always know what's going on." He glanced up at Hogan. "Did you know other POW camps aren't like this?" he asked, a hint of imploring in his voice.

A smile twitched at Hogan's lips. "So I've suspected."

Klink shook his head."Seeing the other Stalags a couple months ago… The prisoners there accomplish amazing things right under the noses of their guards. They tap the electrical lines to light their tunnels, and have machine shops where they manufacture escape equipment, take photographs and forge documents. They all have radios." He waggled an accusing finger at Hogan. "But not transmitters." Hogan looked blandly innocent. "Make civilian clothes and German uniforms…"

Klink's eyes played over Hogan a moment, a probing look. "All aimed toward escape," Klink said. "The means and methods those prisoners use to escape are amazingly clever. Yet here… the escape attempts I've reported in the last two years are almost all exactly the same—a few prisoners, in their own uniforms, cut the wire and are captured not ten feet from the camp. A few other attempts where the method of escape is never found. And far too many others where the 'escaped' prisoners returned voluntarily—not," he qualified, "that I put _that_ in the reports. No. Not like other POW camps. Never a successful escape from Stalag 13…" He trailed off.

Hogan said, "We'd never leave you, sir."

"Hmph! That's what gives me nightmares," Klink said. Hogan grinned in earnest. Shuffling unseeingly through his papers, Klink went on, "It's not just the escapes, or lack…" He looked up at Hogan again. "Did you know this is the only Stalag in all of Germany where the Kommandant's office and personal quarters are within the same compound as the prisoners? Where the senior officer has virtually unlimited access? At Stalag III I asked if the Senior British Officer might join us for dinner. They were horrified. Such a thing had never been done—and wasn't done." He met Hogan's eyes again with a perplexed look. "You've had dinner here with Field Marshal Kesselring, for pity's sake!"

"Among others," Hogan put in.

"Among others," Klink echoed, sounding bleak. "Including Von Stauffenberg." He sighed heavily and looked tense and nervous again. "It would have been better if he had not stopped by here before moving on to attempt to assassinate the Führer."

"There's no connection," Hogan lied smoothly. "That was weeks ago. I'm sure he saw a lot of people between then and now. Coincidence."

"Coincidence… Coincidences add up. Add up to patterns," Klink said glumly. He aimed a stern look at Hogan. "Hochstetter is adding up those coincidences. I wonder what patterns he will find."

"None," Hogan said firmly. "None he can prove," he added.

"Hmph." Klink stared back down at his desk. Hogan stayed quiet and waited him out. Somewhat faintly, Klink eventually said, "I finally finished reading _Mein Kampf_." His eyes drifted back up to meet Hogan's with an edge of desperation in them. "I don't want to be a part of that, but I am." He took a deep breath. "What am I supposed to do?"

"What happened to 'duty is the only thing in the soul of a German warrior'?" Hogan asked.

Klink stood abruptly, pacing nervously. "Duty to whom? Or to what? My country? My people? Or to…" He trailed off, stopping to stare at the Führer.

Standing, too, Hogan moved beside him. "Kommandant Klink," he said evenly, "you do what you've done. You run this camp as the toughest, most escape-proof camp in Germany—with guards you chose because they aren't trigger happy and don't want to see the prisoners dead. Basic decency. That's something sorely lacking these days and it's certainly nothing trivial. Or," Hogan added, "unappreciated." Klink flicked a glance over at him. "Do your job as you've done it. It's what's needed. It's what _we need._" He let more fall into that statement than just what the words said. Klink's eyes played over him a moment. Klink nodded. "And if they want you to give them that Nazi salute to prove you're loyal, do it." Hogan smiled softly. "I'll know your heart's not in it."

To be continued...

* * *

_Episode 36, "Operation Briefcase" deals somewhat with the prelude to the July 20, 1944 attempt on Hitler's life. In that episode the explosive briefcase is provide by London by way of Hogan & Co. The TV episode renames the main conspirator as "Stauffen" rather than Von Stauffenberg. In the aftermath of this assassination attempt, there was an order mandating the Nazi salute._


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: **

_The next several chapters are all based on, and set up, an episode toward the end of the series._

**Mid-August 1944**

"The Mannheimer Bridge…" Hogan told his men, his voice dropping, already lost in the map spread out on his desk. In his mind he visualized the location, the terrain, the roads, the patrols…

Kinch leaned in and peered at the spot Hogan pointed to. "Small bridge," Kinch commented. "Sort of out of the way. Not a main route."

"I got explosives that could take down a much bigger bridge than that," Carter put in eagerly. "I got enough to…"

Hogan stopped him with a look. "Enough for the Mannheimer Bridge will do, Carter. Yes, it is small and it is out of the way," he explained, "but almost impossible for planes to get in through that pass. And taking out the Mannheimer Bridge will force an SS column moving up to the Front in France to reroute. The only way they can reroute will put them in a perfect spot for our bombers to take out their entire column."

"Splat. Pow. Kaboom," Carter eagerly added sound effects to the impending scene.

"What's the plan, Colonel?" Kinch asked.

Hogan straightened and pondered a moment. "Pretty straightforward. We'll go tomorrow night. All of you in black. LeBeau and Newkirk set the explosives on the bridge. Carter wires the detonator. I'll cover the main approach. It's open, exposed, so I'll have to be in German uniform—a captain should do. Kinch—you cover the south approach. It will make a long route back home for you after the bridge blows."

"I'll manage it, sir," Kinch said. "But will you be okay? Out in the open? It's gonna be nearly a full moon tomorrow night."

"Hence the uniform. The rest of you just make sure to keep low and out of sight," Hogan said. "And quiet." He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, studying the map with a thoughtful expression. "You know, intelligence work, passing along information… it's all well and good, but sometimes it's refreshing to see solid results of a night's work." He glanced at LeBeau with a twinkle of a smile. "We'll celebrate the impending liberation of Paris with some fireworks of our own."

"Vive la France," LeBeau murmured, eyes gleaming.

"Splat. Pow. Kaboom," Carter whispered.

* * *

Did he enjoy it? Did he enjoy the sneaking about, the deceptions, the destruction and killing? He'd say 'no' if asked. It was necessity. The hard, cruel realities of fighting a war that had to be fought. But there was an undeniable enjoyment in the danger and the tension; a satisfaction in successfully putting one over, time and again, on a tough, clever adversary. And a distinct pleasure in the triumph, and in the release of that tension later.

The movements of his men were barely shadows amidst shadows as they moved over the bridge structure, setting the explosives and wiring them. Carter began stretching wires toward this side of the bridge as LeBeau and Newkirk continued attaching the explosive packs to the main supports. No time-delay fuse on this job. They needed to make sure it went as planned as a larger air mission depended on it.

Strolling casually—to all appearances—along a high embankment above the road leading up to the bridge, Hogan made certain _all_ his men were following orders strictly. 'All' included the two real German guards halting traffic—as per Hogan's orders—at the bridge approach. The two now carefully searched a farm wagon while the driver, a middle-aged man with a glum expression waited. Hogan studied him briefly, seeing his face clearly in the moonlight.

From the corner of his eye, Hogan saw Carter climb up the bank from the bridge. Hogan frowned. He was too near the road. Hogan watched him struggle with the detonator wires, then realized the problem. Too short. The terrain, or the undergrowth, forced Carter to a more open spot than he'd normally choose.

Glancing toward the bridge guards, Hogan noted their attention fully on the stopped wagon. Fine. Carter was a smudge of deeper black within a shadow. After looking at the glare of their flashlights the guards would never spot him even if they knew where to look. And Carter held low. Good boy.

Still, Hogan paced slowly along the embankment to a position nearer the guards. Discretely, he unsnapped his holster, then reached to check the grenades at his belt. Guards, and farmer, glanced toward him—not toward Carter. Perfect. Hogan nodded to the guards to continue their work. The farmer looked down and away again.

A faint rustle and low cricket sound told Hogan, and Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk were finished and clear of the bridge. A night bird call from the far side of the bridge gave Kinch's acknowledgement. It fell to Carter now, as he wired and prepped the detonator.

Heightened tension flooded Hogan, like flying into the cone of spotlights protecting a target. Except, he realized as he automatically put a chilly control on the feeling, this mission was nowhere near as risky. This was practically safe. Easy. Routine…

His head snapped over to the sound echoing off the trees and hills from around the bend in the road. Scheiße! Ever other manner of strident curse words—strictly the German ones—raced through his mind as he started down the embankment to the road.

He recognized the sound before he saw it. A Schützenpanzerwagen—a German halftrack. As he hurried down the slope, trying not to look panicked and hasty, Hogan calculated the situation. Could be a dozen men in the halftrack. Certainly all well-armed. A 75mm on top.

It neared the bend leading to the bridge approach. Maybe it wouldn't stop. Cross the bridge. Be blown up with the bridge. A bonus. If it stopped, what was the worst…?

The halftrack's headlights landed squarely on Carter as it rounded the bend. That was the worst. The halftrack ground to a stop. Two spotlights snapped on. Carter froze. Stared at them. Deer in the headlights. Little Deer in the headlights, Hogan absurdly thought. Carter frozen. Wires in hand. One more connection to make. Needed two more seconds.

Hogan moved. Shouted for them to halt. Draw attention his way. Aim the spotlights here. Hand on pistol. Heads—guns—poked out of the halftrack. Too many. Too many to shoot. He reached behind his back for the grenades.

Armored vehicle. Shuttered ports. Grenade outside wouldn't stop them. Had to be closer.

He saw them. Sharply. Clearly. Saw their faces. Saw them register his uniform. They turned back to Carter. Guns and lights back to Carter. Black clothes. Detonator. No doubt he was a saboteur. He needed just one second more.

Hogan slid the last foot to the road. Beside the halftrack.

The bolt on the 75mm clacked.

It would cut Carter in half.

One more second. Hogan knew—Carter didn't have it.

Grenade in hand.

Pulled the pin. Threw it in. Right in the porthole. Shouts. Panic.

No hesitation. One smooth move, grabbed another. Pin. Throw. At the 75mm.

Too close.

Far too close.

Carter got his second. Hogan got three. He counted. One. Aviator precision. Scrambled back. Fast. Two. Fell against the embankment. Three…

* * *

He blinked up at the stars. Pretty. Schön.

_Wheels up in a starry night... Good flying. Clear air. No clouds. No icing. A beautiful night to fly…_

Turned his head. Moonlight. Romantic. Lisel und edelweiss. No… Nein… something wrong there. Tiger? A tiger? Huh? Sharp claws raking across… A moan. His?

He blinked. Moonlight. Full moon. Bomber's moon.

A crackling sound from his co-pilot's side of the cockpit. He turned his head toward the crackle. No co-pilot. No cockpit. Bright bursts of stars. He blinked. Not stars. Muzzle flashes. Gun fire. He tried to reach for his pistol. Fingers fumbled. A gun barrel swung his way. Pointed at him.

A voice inside his head recited statistics at him. MP-40 Schmeisser Maschinen Pistole. Five hundred rounds per minute. Muzzle velocity twelve hundred fifty feet per seconds. Thirty-two rounds… Odd time for a lecture. Made him tired. Closed eyes. Wanted to rest. Waited to rest. Peace… eternal peace…

Eyes snapped open. Thirty-two rounds…

Pistol in hand. Raised. How did it get there? Fired. Point blank at a swastika. Schmeissermann screamed.

… _scream came from his gunner in the back, torn half apart by 50mms. Blue brilliance of searchlights turned golden from the flames…_

The sear of heat brought him back. Scorching air from the fire. The explosion. The concussion blasted over him. _Ever seen a firestorm…?_

Mannheimer Bridge. The thought shone starkly. Blown up. They blew it up. Carter blew it up. Good boy. Stuck to the job. Did the job. Was he okay? Were the others…?

Struggling up on his elbow, Hogan gasped, unable to draw enough breath for the scream that wanted to come out. He fell back. The numbed shock shattered. Each breath excruciating. Movement unthinkable. He moved anyhow. Had to. To his side. To his knees.

Black shapes moved to his side. Grasped his arms. Agony as they hauled him up. Smudged faces shouted in his. _Colonel?_ Is that what they said? _Are you okay?_ He couldn't answer. Didn't know what language to answer in. Didn't know what to answer.

They forced him to move. He couldn't fight them off. Glimpses… bridge burning, halftrack smoking, bodies strewn like ragdolls, guards dead, a farmer's face staring in shock at him…

* * *

Kinchloe's breath burned in his lungs and his legs felt like rubber but he made it to the rendezvous point in record time.

The others didn't.

Crouching in the bushes, pistol in hand, Kinch peered carefully around the clearing. They should have been here by now. They should be waiting. Had they all been caught? Killed? Couldn't think that way. It wouldn't help. Stay calm. Wait. Be alert. Assess the situation and then deal with it. He swallowed and steadied himself. Kinch tried to pray but the only words he could find were some Oma used to say. Funny, he thought without humor… a black man in Germany muttering a Yiddish prayer.

The bushes rustled. Kinch tensed. Then relaxed. One, two, three, four… and all on their feet.

No. One being half-carried between two others. Feet moving but without rhythm. That one in German uniform. They eased him to the ground. He went limp. The colonel…

Carter's gun fixed on Kinch as he came out into the small clearing, then lowered. Kinch barely registered the hard look on Andrew's face, or the fear on Newkirk's and LeBeau's faces. Dropping to his knees by Colonel Hogan, Kinch rolled him onto his side. In the moonlight he could see the dark stain spread across the front of the uniform tunic. LeBeau looked away.

Kinch glanced up. "Anyone else hurt?" he asked in a sharp whisper.

"Carter," Newkirk whispered back.

"It's nothing. Just a graze. A scratch," Carter said, low, crouching near them. He didn't look at any of the others; kept his attention, and gun, focused outward, guarding. There was a reason young, puppy-bumbling Carter from Bullfrog, North Dakota was a sergeant.

"You and LeBeau," Kinch ordered, "go out a little ways and keep watch." He didn't want LeBeau on hand for the next part. It spoke to Louis' inner fortitude he made it this far without fainting.

Unbuttoning Hogan's tunic, Kinch carefully peeled it back, trying not to let the white shirt beneath become too visible in the moonlight. "Hold this out," he told Newkirk, indicating he should hold the edge of the tunic to shield Kinch's flashlight.

Kinch scowled as he shone the light over the colonel's midsection. A lot of blood. A damned lot of blood. He eased open the shirt.

Hogan moaned. His eyes blinked open. They roamed aimlessly a moment, then locked on Kinch. "Wie es mir geht?" Hogan asked faintly.

_Still on the mission, sir,_ Kinch thought. "You're fine," he lied in the same language. "Just stay still." Kinch glanced up at Newkirk. He didn't need to say anything; Newkirk could read the truth in his face.

Reaching for the small pouch he carried on his belt, Kinch forced himself to move evenly—fast but unhurried. He tore open a paper packet and shook the sulfa powder out over the wound. Hogan twisted. He tried to clutch at his middle. Kinch tossed the packet aside and held the colonel's hand back. Kinch hesitated, gauze bandage in hand, undecided. They couldn't treat this wound in the barracks; couldn't hide this injury. Not even if he survived… Kinch peeled back the bloody shirt again. And he wouldn't. They needed help. And soon. Very soon.

Hogan's eyes met Kinch's. A few rapid blinks brought a greater clarity into the colonel's eyes. With painful effort, Hogan whispered, "Shot… escape…" If his words had been coherent, the colonel was thinking along the same lines as Kinch. Hogan groaned and twisted again, squeezing his eyes tightly closed. Kinch rocked back on his heels, thinking. He hated the alternatives. Hated them. But only one left a chance for the colonel to come out alive on the other side. Could he make such a decision on the colonel's behalf?

A distant murmur from the colonel settled Kinch's uncertainty. "Sometimes the co-pilot lands the plane," Hogan said to Kinch. Maybe he didn't know where he was. Maybe he did. Either way, he meant Kinch was in charge. His decision.

Putting the gauze back in the pouch, Kinch took out an autoinjector ampoule of morphine and prepped it.

"You can't do that," Newkirk hissed. "It'll put him out. Getting 'im in the tree stump, dodging spotlights, down the ladder… Better we 'ave him conscious even if he's 'urting."

Kinch met Newkirk's eyes. "We're not taking him back through the tunnel." He jabbed the injector down.

* * *

The rumble of a distant explosion hadn't disturbed Klink. Those were far too common for notice. He barely glanced up before settling back to continue reading. Propping his feet up, he shifted to get more comfortable in the easy chair, then focused on the book. It was laborious reading. Oh, not so difficult as _Mein Kampf_ (ghastly prose on top of insane ideology). But this book was a chore too, though in quite a different way. American baseball… Strange sport with its own distinct vocabulary—he didn't understand quite a few of the American (not English!) words. He'd have to ask Hogan later what they meant.

Somewhere in the middle of a detailed (and stunningly dull) play-by-play description of some baseball game the Americans seemed to have considered terribly profound, Klink dozed off. A gunshot woke him.

Head snapping up, Klink concentrated, wondering if he'd dreamed it. He cocked his head. That sounded like a pistol shot. Not a second later a barrage of rifle fire blended with the rapid staccato of a tower machine gun.

Klink's feet hit the floor. Alarms sounded. The gunfire chopped off. Grabbing up his uniform jacket, Klink struggled into it as he dashed for the door.

From the front porch of his quarters, facing the fence near the main gate, Klink saw the tower lights swinging around, scanning the treeline. One remained stationary, though, aimed down onto a cluster of guards near the fence a short distance away from the gate.

Hurrying down the steps, Klink saw Sergeant Schultz waddling as rapidly as he could out the gate toward the cluster of guards. Klink followed.

An escape? An attack by the Underground? Or one of Hogan's schemes—a diversion for something else? He glanced back toward the camp. The compound appeared still. Appearances, as he knew all too well, were entirely deceiving whenever Hogan was involved.

Klink strode forward, bellowing a demand for a report from Schultz. The acrid smell of gunpowder twitched at his nostrils. Klink noticed the guard with whom Hogan was particularly at odds standing still, wearing a stunned expression. What…? The man was a combat veteran. What could possibly have him shaken?

A prisoner stood, surrounded by guards with rifles at ready. His hands weren't up. Instead he clutched one arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. Klink squinted at him. Carter. The young man looked shaken, too. He'd been hurt. Donnerwetter… shot. Shot while trying to escape. The phrase rang through Klink's mind along with all the ugly associations tied to it. Their first 'shot while trying to escape' report from Stalag 13. But Carter was on his feet—apparently not too badly hurt, thank the Maker! Look at him, though—black clothing top to bottom and black smudges on his pale face. Carter faced Klink with a stricken look.

The guards shifted aside for the Kommandant to pass between them. Schultz, still ignoring his demands for a report, struggled to kneel, using his rifle for support. Another prisoner had been shot. But who would wear a white shirt on a moonlit night to try to escape? Who would try to escape at all?

Klink stepped up to the crumpled figure on the ground. So much blood on the shirt. He swallowed. So much blood. Schultz had his hand on the man's neck, obviously seeking a pulse. Did he find one? Then Schultz shifted and looked up at the Kommandant, his expression tragic.

"Herr Kommandant," Schultz said in a voice too small for such a large man, "I beg to report…"

He trailed off. Klink saw the face of the fallen prisoner.

"Mein Gott," he whispered.

* * *

Kinchloe watched just long enough to be sure everything went according to the hastily sketched out plan. LeBeau snuck up to the wire, cutting his way _in_. Carter timed the lights to wrestle Hogan's dead weight unseen into the open near the fence. Newkirk instigated the gunfire with a single pistol shot, near, but not too near, Carter and Hogan. At the answering gunfire burst out, Carter let Hogan slump to the ground and shouted for surrender.

Practically diving down the tree stump, Kinch hit the bottom of the ladder into the tunnel at a dead run. Not 'dead' he chanted to himself as he ran. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

The senior NCO from Barracks Three dropped down from the tunnel entrance in that barracks as Kinch passed by toward the radio room. Did they need a diversion? Any help? Kinch waved him off without slowing, then abruptly spun about, ordering him to be on watch for the Gestapo. Hopefully they wouldn't need a diversion, but nothing else was going according to plan tonight, best be prepared for the worst. More worst.

Dropping the colonel's blood-stained German uniform tunic, Kinch grabbed up his fatigues jacket from the radio room, pulling it on as he moved. No time to change entirely. He scrambled up the ladder into Barracks Two to meet the worried expressions of the other men in the barracks. One watched outside through the waterbarrel periscope.

"They're taking one on a stretcher into the Kommandant's quarters," the man crouching by the sink reported. "Leading another to the cooler." Every other eye in the room fixed on Kinch, awaiting the answer to the big question: Who?

"It's Carter they're taking to the cooler," he told them. He paused, wondering why he was unwilling to say the words aloud. "The colonel is seriously hurt."

* * *

Klink watched without expression as the guards settled Hogan's limp form onto the bed in his guest bedroom. Shot… shot while trying to escape. Yet not a one of his guards could say who shot him. Fired into the ground, the tower guard claimed. Into the woods, the sentries said. Aimed high. Several even claimed they were fired upon first. He would have to investigate. But later.

Hogan… Klink had to fight not to look away. Bright, moonlit night and he had on a white shirt, no jacket or coat. One didn't have to be an expert in the art of escapes to see the incongruity there. And the trousers… not brown, nor civilian. German military gray.

The prisoner's medic—what was his name? Ah, Wilson—hurried in, ahead of the huffing Sergeant Schultz who'd been sent to fetch him, with Sergeant Kinchloe close on his heels. Kinchloe had not been sent for, Klink noted but did not comment upon. And look at him—black clothing, like young Carter wore, with his uniform jacket over it. Klink scowled more deeply. Kinchloe part of the same escape attempt? Or something else?

Wilson settled down by the bed and began examining Hogan with cool precision. He may be only a medic, and an enlisted man, but he knew his job, Klink decided. Schultz stopped at the end of the bed beside Klink, still huffing. Glancing at him, Klink saw how worried the big sergeant's expression was. Over a prisoner. Klink held his own expression stonily fixed.

"Well?" Klink demanded after Wilson had a moment to examine Hogan.

Without looking up or slowing in his work, Wilson said, "He's alive. He's lost a lot of blood." Wilson glanced up at Kinchloe. "I'll need to start a transfusion as soon as possible. Round up some donors." He fumbled at Hogan's neck. "Where's his dogtags?" he asked, sounding irritated at anything hindering his task.

"They're in the…" Kinchloe flicked a glance at Klink. "In his quarters," he finished. He aimed a look toward the doorway. "Newkirk…" Klink looked around. Newkirk had joined the German guards crowding into the doorway, along with LeBeau (who had his face averted and seemed unusually pale).

"Right away," Newkirk said, turning to dash back out.

Prisoners weren't supposed to be running about in the middle of the night, in the middle of an 'escape'. Klink jabbed a finger at a guard—a 'tame' one, Langenscheidt. "You, go with him. Bring whatever or whomever they need." He looked at LeBeau. The Cockroach snuck tiny glances at Hogan and grew more sickly looking with each glance. "And take him back to his barracks and see to it he stays there. The rest of you—out!"

Klink turned back to the bed as Wilson pulled aside Hogan's shirt and sponged off the blood to expose the wound. Klink stared. Then he closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Fighting it back, he turned and marched quickly out of the room.

* * *

Kinchloe glanced up as the Kommandant abruptly left. "Can't stand the sight of blood either," he muttered. He felt a little queasy himself. Even Wilson seemed unsettled as he probed and prodded.

As soon as the Kommandant was out of the room, Wilson whispered to Kinch, "What did this?"

In a murmur, Kinch said, "Not sure. Probably shrapnel. He was right beside a halftrack when he tossed a couple grenades into it."

"Oh… Jesus," Wilson whispered as he probed and sponged carefully. There was nothing blasphemous in his use of the Name. In fact, Kinch echoed it silently. "I can probably stop most of the bleeding… pack it off… give him a transfusion to replace what he's lost… still losing…" He met Kinch's eyes with a grim look. "But I can't fix this."

"You have to," Kinch whispered sharply. "You have to try."

Wilson shook his head. "He needs a surgeon. I'm not even a doctor. I'm a medic. I'd kill him quicker than if we did nothing."

Kinch nodded, bowing his head, trying to think. The Kommandant… it depended on the Kommandant. From the other room, Kinch heard the sound he hoped to hear; prayed to hear. Kommandant Klink was on the phone, demanding to be connected _at once_ to the local hospital. Schultz heard, too. He straightened up to alert then abruptly hurried out into the other room. Kinch looked back down at the colonel, hoping they'd hurry.

* * *

Klink waited impatiently for the line to connect. After what seemed an eternity, the staticy connection was made and the hospital answered. "Yes, yes," he said impatiently, not wanting to wait for the greeting and 'Heil Hitler' rituals to complete. "This is…"

Smack.

A hand slammed down on the receiver, cutting off the connection.

Klink glared up. "Schultz. What are you doing?" he growled.

"No hospital," Schultz ordered. No mistaking the tone. Klink stared into Schultz's face. He'd never seen such a hard expression on this kindly—he might even say 'squishy', he'd certainly thought it—man before. What…?

"No hospital," Schultz ordered again. "No doctor. You can't. I…" He quavered a moment. "I won't let you." His chin came up defiantly.

"Donnerwetter," Klink grated. "Have you gone mad?" He jabbed his arm out to point at Hogan, pale and bloody, on the bed in the other room. "He'll die. Is that what you want?"

"No, Herr Kommandant," Schultz answered stoutly, then his resolute demeanor crumbled, showing the Schultz Klink believed he knew. "But no hospital or doctor. They would _know_. They file reports. On an enemy officer, a prisoner of war… the Gestapo would see the reports immediately." Schultz hesitated, swallowing before adding in a distraught tone, "Herr Kommandant… that is not a bullet wound."

Klink glanced down and away, steadying himself before sharply saying, "I know that." He'd seen it. That was why he had to leave the room so abruptly. He looked back up at Schultz. "But without treatment… he'll die."

Quietly, Schultz said, "Better here than with the Gestapo."

Klink thought about the explosion he'd heard earlier tonight. If he thought of it, Hochstetter would think of it faster and far more resolutely. Deadly resolution. It took Klink a few tries before he was able to say, "I don't accept that. There has to be a way…"

"Der Tierarzt," another voice came into the conversation. In the doorway of the bedroom, Sergeant Kinchloe stood. "The veterinarian," he repeated.

"You heard what we were saying?" Klink demanded, in English, as Kinchloe walked slowly toward them. "You _understood_ what we were saying?" Klink rolled his eyes and answered the question for himself. "Of course you did." Probably all of Hogan's men were fluent in German.

Never mind that now, he told himself. "The veterinarian," Klink said. "Schnitzer?" Klink gave a small sigh. Of course… one of the Underground contacts. In and out of camp with a truck virtually unsearched because of the dangerous dogs. Pieces falling into place… He shoved those thoughts aside. A veterinarian… to operate on a person, an officer… Hogan? Klink repressed a shudder at the wrongness of it. But he would have the tools, and the skills. And an even greater wrongness awaited at the end of the other choices. "You trust him? Your medic thinks he can help?"

Kinchloe nodded. "Yes, sir. Will you bring him here, sir?" The man looked scared, Klink thought. He glanced at Schultz. The big sergeant wore an imploring look.

"Hogan's chances are much better if I take him to the hospital," Klink told Kinchloe. "Prisoner or no, he would be treated correctly."

"I know, sir," Kinchloe said softly. He glanced at Schultz. "But Schultz is right."

* * *

Klink paced in a tense sort of goose-steppy way, Kinchloe noticed. Kinchloe paced too, but in a more casual ambling way. Schultz, worn out with pacing, just sat, staring at the closed bedroom door.

Then Klink stopped pacing and dropped into a chair to almost frantically page through sheets of papers and reports spread out on the small table. Kinchloe wanted to tell him what to do, how to manipulate those reports so as to disconnect this event from the Mannheimer Bridge explosion, but he kept silent.

His pacing route took him near Klink. He glanced at the paper held tightly in the Kommandant's hands. Klink had been staring at that blank form for a long time. It was a 'shot while trying to escape' report. Deciding what, if anything, to put in that report?

"How could you tell, sir," Kinch found himself asking, "that it wasn't a bullet wound?"

With manifest annoyance, Klink glared up at him. "This is not my first war, Sergeant."

Oh. Sure… For all their jokes about Klink still fighting the last war, and avoiding any and all combat, Klink had to have seen a few things. Probably more than a few. Kinch continued his pacing route away from the Kommandant. Schultz, too, he decided. The big, cuddly guard had been in the trenches in France, hadn't he? There was more to both of these men than met the eye. He'd made the decision to put the colonel's life in their hands and so far they'd done the right thing every step of the way tonight. He'd just have to trust they'd continue to do so.

Having no other choice made that a much easier task.

* * *

The bedroom door opened. Schnitzer strode out, hands bloody. He glared at Klink, then with equal vehemence at Schultz and Kinchloe. The veterinarian appeared gruff and angry. But, then, he always appeared gruff and angry. He 'harrumphed' at the three, then marched into the bathroom without a word. Klink heard the water began to run.

Wilson came to the bedroom door. He looked as weary as a person possibly could yet still be on his feet.

"Well?" Klink demanded.

With a shrug, Wilson said, "We got the, uh… _bullet_… out." His eyes went to Kinchloe. "And some other fragments. Maybe all of them, maybe not," he added. "Cleaned it out. Patched him up. Stopped the bleeding." He shook his head. "I don't know… I just don't. There was debris, dirt…"

"So he'll die of infection," Klink said remotely, without really realizing he'd said it aloud.

"Not necessarily." Wilson went on, apparently forgetting for a moment he was reporting to the camp Kommandant, an enemy officer, "We got him pumped pretty full of penicillin, and have more on hand…"

"Where did you get penicillin?" Klink demanded abruptly. Then he waved his hand in the air to halt any answers before they began. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"But we are extremely low on other things. Everything, really," Wilson said, with a concerned/apologetic glance at Kinchloe. "The last couple batches of prisoners brought in had a lot of wounded among them. They're coming in in worse shape than they used to. We're almost out of morphine. If we can't get more the colonel's in for a bad time."

Wilson and Kinch looked expectantly at Klink. "There are shortages," he said defensively. "Requisitions for medical supplies…" He threw his hands up.

Schnitzer came out of the bathroom toweling off his hands. He tossed the towel on a chair and rolled down his shirt sleeves.

"Schnitzer," Klink said. The vet glowered over at him as he pulled on his coat. "Do you have any morphine in your supplies?"

"Phaw! Why should I have morphine?" Schnitzer growled. "If he were a dog hurt like that, I would shoot him. You—" He pointed accusingly at Klink. "—you already did that. So now I treat him like a dog. Ask me what I have for dogs and I tell you—nothing!" His voice dropped to a mutter as he gathered his equipment. "Damned rationing. Damned army. Damned…" The mutter dropped to sub-vocal though the diatribe obviously continued. When he'd completed his inner rant, Schnitzer looked up again at Klink with a finely honed glare. "This bill you pay in cash," he told Klink. "No damned voucher." Muttering 'damned this' and 'damned that' Schnitzer stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

"Charming fellow," Klink commented dryly. No voucher. No record.

"He did a good job," Wilson put in quietly.

Klink nodded. "Good." He rubbed his eyes and glanced toward the windows. It was growing brighter outside. Roll call soon. Donnerwetter. He should have ordered a roll call during the night, immediately after the 'escape' was discovered.

"Now what?" Klink addressed the question to Wilson.

He shrugged. "Wait. See how it goes. As the morphine we gave him wears off, and this latest transfusion catches up with all the blood he lost, he should wake up." He sighed heavily. "Almost better if he stayed unconscious," he added distantly, looking back into the bedroom.

Taking a deep breath and releasing it, Klink shook himself. He was getting tired. It had been a long night. To Wilson he ordered, "Go to the cooler and tend to Carter. Then to your barracks and rest."

"Sir, I…" Wilson began.

Klink waved him off. "That's an order. You'll be called at once if you're needed."

"Yes, sir." He gave Kinchloe a long look and turned to go.

"Schultz," Klink continued, "See to your duties. Roll call is soon." He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes closed. After a major escape attempt the prisoners should be confined all day, and the guard increased. No… let it all be normal, as though nothing happened last night. "Normal routine, Schultz. No changes," he added.

"Jawohl," Schultz agreed, saluting. "I understand."

No doubt, Klink thought. After Schultz and Wilson were gone, Klink turned to Sergeant Kinchloe, about to dismiss him.

"I'd like to stay, sir," Kinchloe said. "If I may."

Klink nodded distractedly. "Yes. Of course. One of the prisoners may be here at all times," he said. He fixed a stern look on the sergeant. "But I won't have prisoners tromping in and out of my quarters at any time at will."

"I understand, sir," Kinchloe said politely. "I'll see to it a rotation is set up." He hesitated in a way that caused Klink to focus on him more closely. Then Kinchloe said in an offhand sort of way, "It would be better if this hadn't happened last night."

"Hmph! That is, indeed, an understatement," Klink said.

"No, sir," Kinchloe said, his voice lowering even more. He stepped nearer Klink, but not in a threatening way. "I mean it would be better if this had happened…" He shrugged. "…maybe the night before? Maybe a couple days ago…" He trailed off, giving a pointed glance toward the paperwork strewn on the table.

There was a long, laden moment of silence between them. Klink moved to the bedroom door to stare in at the unmoving figure on the bed. The explosion last night… Klink wanted to ask yet he didn't want to ask. The simple fact of the matter was he could not ask. Things must remain unsaid and unknown. Hogan could, and would, steer him through this mess… but now he couldn't. Hard reality told him they might be burying Colonel Hogan in a few days. Though, as Schultz said, better here than at the hands of the Gestapo.

The Gestapo… They would arrive here, sooner or later. Hopefully later. With Hochstetter in Berlin… yes, they had a few days. He was the only one of the Gestapo mad enough to suspect a prisoner of war. But, yes, Hochstetter would arrive eventually. No doubt about that. No doubt whatsoever. He'd be here, adding up pieces, trying to solve the puzzle.

What puzzle pieces would he find?, Klink asked himself. And how would they mesh with the sound of distant explosions in the night?

Klink glanced over at the waiting American sergeant, meeting the man's dark eyes. "My weekly reports don't need to go out for several more days," Klink commented, as if to himself. "If a date, perhaps, is mistyped… Well, these things happen." He straightened and tugged his uniform straighter. "Now, I must go attend to the morning roll call." He glared at Kinchloe. "If any prisoners are reported missing there will be dire consequences for the entire camp. Dire consequences."

"Yes, sir," Kinchloe answered, his demeanor properly meek and submissive. But Klink didn't miss the hopeful smile that accompanied it.

To be continued...


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

_A shameless indulgence in some classic fanfic hurt/comfort, light on the comfort. _

A loud 'thud' sounded from the bedroom containing Hogan. Moving quickly toward the doorway to investigate, Klink jumped back as Kinchloe and Wilson stepped out, lugging the Cockroach between them.

"Donnerwetter! What happened?" he demanded.

"Fainted," Kinchloe said.

"I was hanging another unit of blood and LeBeau saw it," Wilson explained apologetically.

"And he fainted?" Klink gaped at LeBeau, the fierce, tough, resolute little Frenchman. "From the sight of blood… _in a bottle?_"

"'Fraid so," Kinchloe said.

Klink scowled. "Get him out of here. Back to the barracks." Seeing their hesitation, with a sharp wave of his hand, Klink added, "Go. I'll watch Hogan until you get back."

Entering the dimly lit bedroom slowly, Klink studied Hogan. He hadn't come back in here before now. Hogan no longer lay deathly still. He moaned and twisted. He'd probably wake up soon.

Klink sat in the chair drawn up beside the bed, examining the small array of medical supplies on the nightstand. English labels on the vials of penicillin. Scowling, Klink put those in the drawer, out of sight, and closed it. Syringe. A vial of morphine—not full, not even half full—and one of those American issue autoinjectors, also something they shouldn't have. He tucked that into the drawer with the penicillin.

Another moan from Hogan drew his attention back. Klink stared a moment at the man's sweat-beaded face, then took the cloth from the pan of water on the nightstand, wrung it out, and carefully laid it on Hogan's forehead.

Maybe it would be better if he died here and now, Klink surprised himself by thinking. Surprised, too, by the cold hardness within himself at the thought. How many lives would be the price of saving this one man's? Hogan, himself, would only count those lives from his side. Klink had to count from both sides—his own, potentially, not least amongst them. What price? And who makes the count?

Klink let that thought rest heavy with him a long time while he watched Hogan writhe. He reached to hold Hogan's arms pinned down at one point, when it appeared he might pull the IV out. Murmuring the soothing platitudes his mother used to say to him when he was a child, without really listening to them, Klink contemplated. What had been the price in lives he'd asked Hogan to risk to save Herr Sauer's granddaughter? Had Hogan stopped to count the cost before he agreed to help? Probably. He was no fool. But he'd done it anyhow.

Taking back the cloth, Klink rinsed it in the cool water, and dabbed at the younger man's face. He _was_ younger, Klink reminded himself. For all Hogan's cocky surety and knowledge, for all his apparent skills in the ways of warfare… this was still his first war. Did he truly understand the price he demanded of people? How long could that price be met?

* * *

_Hot pokers skewered him. He tried to pull away. They wouldn't let him; held him down. Dark sneering eyes mocked him as the evil little monster promised more torture. He recognized the Gestapo torture chamber; recognized the vicious thug tormenting him. Two hours, he'd promised once. Now… Not two hours. It promised to go on and on forever. He tried to twist away. They wouldn't let him…_

Hogan's eyes blinked open, the nightmare of torture fading into the background. He stared at the ceiling, trying to comprehend where he was and why. A remote voice murmured in German. Blink. Cleveland? Granddad's house? Comfortable. Comforting. Soothing. No… Uncle's? Berlin. Comfort and comfortable shifted into fearful tension. Blinking again, he turned his head. The sight of a glass bottle hanging upsidedown full of something red meant nothing. He stared, fixated, at it, trying to deduce what it could mean.

For the first few seconds after waking, Hogan felt fine. Vague and disconnected, but not hurting. Then his body and conscious mind reconnected and a wave of agony seized him. He tried to curl in against it; tried to twist away from it. But it followed him, clenching his gut tighter with searing claws ripping in.

"Stop that," a familiar voice he didn't recognize ordered.

Hogan jerked his head over toward the voice.

"Stop fighting it," the voice ordered calmly. "You make it worse if you fight it. Just relax to it." Something blessedly cool touched his face, easing some of the flames burning him.

Hogan squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried to obey the order. Inch by inch, by sheer force of will, he unclenched. The voice murmured more soothing things that helped him focus. The pain stayed, but the fiery claws pulled back just a touch. Hogan opened his eyes.

"Oh, my God," he gasped between short, shallow breaths. "You are the ugliest nurse I've ever seen."

"No doubt," Klink answered dryly. The glorious coolness withdrew as Klink turned away. Hogan heard the trickling sound of water. A beautiful sound. He was unbearably thirsty. Klink turned back and laid the cool cloth back on his forehead. "Breathe slower," Klink ordered him. "Slow and even. Concentrate on it. Make yourself do it."

Hogan tried to obey. The fiery claws raked at him again. He tried to twist away. Hands pushed down on his arms, stopping him from reaching toward the source of the pain.

"No," Klink's voice ordered sternly. "Be still. Don't fight it. Focus on relaxing and breathing."

After an endless minute or ten, Hogan was able to open his eyes again. "What happened to me?" he managed to get out.

Klink's rigid expression tightened further. "You were trying to escape. One of the guards shot you."

Hogan squinted, trying to think. Memories eluded him, lost in a black void. "Escape? Why would I…?"

"Ssshhh." Klink made the sound sharply. "That's what happened. Remember it."

Letting the thought sit a moment without working on it further, Hogan looked around the room. "Your quarters?" he gasped out.

"Yes," Klink said, then repeated his orders. "Breathe slower. Evenly. Make yourself relax."

With a struggle to obey, Hogan asked, "Why not a hospital?" There was a wrongness here. The way he felt, the way it hurt…

Klink's lips pressed tightly together a moment before he answered. He didn't meet Hogan's eyes as he said, "You weren't hurt that badly."

Twisting against another sweep of the raking claws of fire, Hogan bit back the cry that rose in his throat. "Oh… my… God… It feels… that bad."

"Stop fighting it," Klink ordered again like a litany. "It just makes it worse. Don't fight the pain. Relax. Surrender to it."

A short laugh burst out of Hogan at that. "Never surrender," he said.

Klink smiled at him briefly. "Well, this time you need to." He held up a vial in front of Hogan. Squinting and refocusing, Hogan finally managed to read the label. Blessedly beautiful morphine. Light at the end of the tunnel. Promise of relief from the torture. Shining beacon of hope… Then Klink told him, "This is all there is. If I give it to you now, there will be no more."

Hogan fell back against the pillow, struggling to surrender to the pain. Relief was a needle-prick away. But then, no more. He'd rather have the knowledge that relief from the torture was there waiting when he absolutely couldn't take any more. That knowledge gave him strength. Closing his eyes, he swallowed against his dry throat and muttered, "I can wait." Klink nodded, setting the vial back on the nightstand. "Can I have some water?" Hogan asked.

Klink moved to fill a small tumbler from a pitcher, then held it for him. "Just a sip," he told Hogan.

Falling back, exhausted after even that small effort, Hogan continued the struggle not to tense up against the lancing bursts of pain radiating outwards from his middle.

"You need to keep your mind off it," Klink told him. "Don't think about the pain. Think about other things."

"Hard." Hogan gasped out. When you're being skewered in the gut by red-hot pokers, it's damnably hard to ignore it and instead ponder the weather or poetry.

"You need a distraction," Klink said. "Maybe I could read to you about the protocol for military funerals. Would you like the helmet on top the coffin? Or inside?"

The choking laugh hurt, but Klink was right. It did distract him. "That's only funny if it's not so likely to be true," Hogan answered.

"No," Klink said flatly. "It's not even funny then." He scowled down at Hogan as he refreshed the cool cloth. "If I take you to the hospital, Hochstetter would surely take you out."

So that was it, Hogan realized. "I understand. But what happened…?"

"You were shot. While. Trying. To. Escape." Klink punctuated the words firmly.

"Yes, sir. Aaaawwww…" The claws raked him again.

"Sssshhh…." Klink held his arms. "Stop that. Surely this can't be the first time you've been badly injured. There's hardly a person who flies, especially in the military, who hasn't been seriously hurt at least once. You mentioned you crashed a Hurricane in the Battle of Britain. You must have been hurt then, you know what's it's like. Don't fight against it." He repeated the order as Hogan forced himself to throttle back.

Panting, Hogan said, "I was doped out of my mind for better than a week." He peered up at Klink. "And the nurses had hair. And other… distracting attributes."

Klink gave a small smile. "Sorry I can't oblige on any of those. Tell me about it. Describe the nurses."

"Uuuuggghh… Um… a redhead. Real dish. A, uh… a blonde with big… attributes." Hogan paused to pant. "But I fell totally in love with the one named Mary Sue."

"Attractive woman?" Klink murmured as he refreshed the damp cloth.

"The most beautiful woman ever." Hogan managed a smile at Klink. "Sat with me many a night. Gentle touch. Perfect disposition. I think I'd have married her if she'd have agreed."

"She must have been very lovely," Klink said.

Hogan twisted a bit before he was able to say, "Actually she looked a quite a bit like Burkhalter's sister." Klink chuckled.

* * *

Kinchloe came back into Klink's quarters along with Newkirk. He'd have to readjust the rotation to remove LeBeau from the schedule. As they entered, both heard the murmur of voices from the bedroom.

Waving Newkirk to stay back, Kinchloe moved quietly to the bedroom door. The Kommandant glanced over at him, then returned his attention to Hogan. Kinchloe listened a minute. They were talking about airplanes and the ways either or both had managed to crash them.

Easing the door further closed, Kinchloe moved away.

"You're not going to leave Klink in there with the gov'nor, are you?" Newkirk hissed.

"Klink's doing okay," Kinchloe said. "He saw we're here. He'll call us in if he needs us."

Seizing Kinchloe by the arm, Newkirk insisted, "You can't leave the colonel alone with the Kommandant like he is—he's feverish, maybe delirious. Who knows what he could say. Klink could take advantage—pry information out of him."

"It's okay, Peter," Kinchloe said. "Really."

Still not willing to let it go, Newkirk said, "The colonel ought to 'ave one of his own in with him."

With a studied glance at the door, Kinchloe commented, "He sort of does."

* * *

"…so I had a whole big plan worked out where you'd save the day when the invasion came. D-Day," Hogan said. Klink was right. If he could keep his mind off the hurting, stay relaxed and focused elsewhere, it was bearable. Wretched. Exhausting. But bearable.

"Save the day for whom?" Klink asked, sponging at Hogan's face again. "Us, or the Allies?"

"Oh, the Allies, of course," Hogan said, struggling to tell the tale with the proper spirit. "See, the General Staff would come here to use Stalag 13 as their command center. Because of your amazing security here…"

Klink let out a derisive snort. "The General Staff? In the middle of a POW camp? That would never happen." He inclined his head and immediately amended, "Maybe they would. Stranger things have happened here. Go on…"

"And then we work out a way to convince them that _you'd_ been made the new Chief of Staff," Hogan told him, managing a twitch of a smile to go with it.

Leaning back, Klink contemplated. "I'd like that. Yes, indeed… I think I'd like that very much."

Hogan gave a chuckle. "Yeah, you loved it. Right until they asked you what to do about the invasion."

* * *

"… but I did fly a Heinkel once," Klink told Hogan defensively.

"In combat?" Hogan persisted.

"Well, no," Klink admitted. "A test flight. Before we took Poland. General--well, then Colonel--Burkhalter made me go up." He shuddered in a way that put a grin on Hogan's face. "Bear in mind that though I'd been in the Luftwaffe over twenty years by then, most of that time we didn't have airplanes. Hard to keep flight skills current when you have nothing to fly."

"I suppose," Hogan agreed, then had to pause to fight another rake of the claws. When he was able again, he asked, "So what happened?"

Klink gave a small laugh. "When I got the thing back on the ground—or rather the co-pilot did—somehow General Burkhalter thought it advisable to assign me to command of a POW camp. I can't imagine why." He pulled the cloth off Hogan's forehead and dipped it in the pan of water. "September '39… I suppose you were back home in the States, thinking about nothing but girls and baseball and fun."

With a small snort, Hogan said, "Hardly. I was in England telling MI-6 every damned thing I knew about you bastards."

Klink was silent a minute, then laid his hand on Hogan's forehead. "Your fever's up," he commented. He put the cooling cloth back. Evenly, Klink said, "I don't believe I heard that last thing you said. Something about baseball and girls, wasn't it?"

Hogan stared up at the ceiling, trying to concentrate. "Yeah, something like that," he murmured.

* * *

"… those jets. I want one of those," Hogan said in the same tone of voice he used when talking about women. Klink smiled. "Have you seen one?"

"Yes, well… I did see an early version of our jets," Klink said. Harmless information. Hogan knew more about them than he did, as seemed always to be the case with Luftwaffe planes. "Let's see… It was '39. In the summer. The airplane was a Heinkel 178 with a jet engine designed by von Ohain. I saw that when I was with the 410th…"

Hogan perked up. "The 410th? You were with the 410th? The operational test group?"

Klink frowned at him. "How do you know about…?" He waved his hand to cancel the question. "Never mind. I can't discount everything to delirium. Yes, I was with the 410th for a little while."

"You flew experimental planes?" Hogan stared hard at him with eyes feverishly bright.

"Hardly!" Klink snorted. "I'm not a fool," he said, then scowled again at Hogan's answering expression. "I sent insanely brave young men like you up, then kept records on whether they survived or not." He leaned back, remembering. "I spent a lot of time in the control tower. I rather enjoyed that…" Clearing his throat, Klink prepped his control tower voice. "Luftwaffe Me fünf eine sieben…" he enunciated into an imaginary microphone.

Hogan jerked. Then groaned and stared. "That was you?" he got out before he closed his eyes and tried to clutch at his middle. As Klink held Hogan's hands back, he recalled one of those days at the field with sudden clarity—watching from the tower, a plane landing, the pilot climbing out, pulling off his flight helmet and goggles… Klink didn't know the pilot, but he was vaguely familiar looking. The voice over the crackly speaker sounded distinctly Berlinerisch. Dark hair, big grin as he spoke to the other Luftwaffe pilots with animated hand gestures. Klink turned away to bring in the next plane. Whoever he was… a common sort, looked like a lot of people he'd seen in passing…

When Hogan eased up from the wave of pain, both he and Klink seemed to find other things in the small room more interesting to look at than each other.

* * *

His fever grew worse. The medic, Wilson, had replaced the IV with saline, given him more penicillin, and stared grimly for a while. Then Klink ordered him and the others away. Hogan's men slunk out sullenly, hating to take Klink's orders on this but having no choice.

As they closed the bedroom door behind them, Klink surveyed his primary prisoner. Berlin would be less upset with him if the other nine hundred ninety-nine escaped, but he held onto this one. Oh, they'd still shoot him, or send him to the Front (at least now there was a choice of Fronts, ever closer on either side), but they'd be less angry when they did so.

Hogan's eyes opened again as he writhed against the pain. Shushing him, Klink repeated the litany to stop fighting and relax.

Panting, Hogan murmured, "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Yes. For comrades at the end of the Great War. It grew ever more vicious and, as now, supplies grew short." Klink shook his head. "And now we do it again," he added with soft sorrow.

The sounds of the camp outside the dim room caught Hogan's fragmented attention. "What's that? What's going on?"

Klink took a moment to answer. "The prisoners are celebrating." He paused. "Paris was—" What word to choose? "—liberated."

* * *

The final dose of the morphine knocked him out for most of the night, though Kinchloe couldn't decide if Wilson did it for Hogan's benefit or to give his attendants a break from the exhausting frustration of not being able to truly help. Kinchloe sat with Hogan the next day as it wore off, trying less successfully to emulate what he'd seen and heard the Kommandant do. It was a long miserable day for his commander, Kinchloe considered, made worse by the late August heat and the knowledge that now no promise of relief from the torment remained.

Kinchloe glanced toward the nightstand drawer. The Kommandant had ordered the remaining dose of morphine in the autoinjector was not be used except on his specific orders. Neither Kinchloe nor Wilson told Hogan about it. Stifling a sigh, Kinchloe repeated his motions of offering a cool, damp cloth mechanically. It felt so useless. So futile. The colonel wasn't doing badly, Wilson had assured them all. But when Kinchloe saw him in such misery and pain, the lie was too clear.

Maybe London would come through tonight. Kinchloe bowed his head. Maybe tonight. The last attempted drop of medical supplies failed… something about a war getting in the way. Maybe tonight…

His head jerked up at the harsh sound of marching feet in the room outside. The bedroom door burst open. Klink strode in, a hard look on his face. Schultz followed behind, also with an uncharacteristically hard expression. Kinchloe's mouth dropped open. Schultz carried a set of leg irons. What…?

"Move aside," Klink snapped, waving his arm. Kinchloe scrambled back.

Hogan watched with remote disinterest as Schultz shackled him by the ankle to the carved wooden bedframe. Kinchloe stood aside as the Kommandant yanked open the nightstand drawer, pulling out the autoinjector of morphine. Klink prepped it quickly. He must have studied it before, Kinchloe realized, to be able to do so that rapidly. Then Klink turned to the bed and without hesitation jabbed it into Hogan.

The colonel gave a soft sigh and soon went limp. Coupled with the exhaustion, the dose was enough to put him out. As Klink put the empty injector out of sight in the drawer, Kinchloe asked, "What is it, sir? What's going on?"

Kommandant Klink stared at Kinchloe with an unfathomable look.

"The Gestapo is here."

* * *

Sergeant Kinchloe felt trapped.

Did the colonel feel this way when he knowingly walked into situations he might not be able to walk out of? When he told his men 'don't wait for me'? Kinchloe glanced at Hogan on the bed. It wasn't Kinchloe who was really trapped right now, it was Colonel Hogan. Drugged into unconsciousness and shackled to the bed… Entirely helpless. Though he didn't know it, his fate rested entirely with the Kommandant.

Peeking out the window, Kinchloe saw the Gestapo thug step out of his car. Two SS soldiers accompanied a single Gestapo agent. Not Hochstetter, thank the Lord. Kinchloe hoped that was a good sign. Kommandant Klink strode up to the car trailed by Schultz. The black-clothed agent greeted Klink with the Nazi salute. A shiver raced down Kinchloe's spine as he watched the Kommandant return the salute precisely, with an appearance of unmistakable conviction. Oh… God! Kinchloe glanced at Hogan again. Not for the first time he prayed they were right about Klink.

Kinchloe waited, tense and taut. Then… nothing.

He'd expected the monsters would appear instantly at the bedroom door, but they didn't. The waiting began to etch into Kinchloe's composure more than the sudden fear had. He returned to the bedside, but he wasn't even needed now to soothe the colonel. Loaded with morphine, Hogan was having his first peaceful hour of the day. Oddly, he was probably the only person in the camp at ease.

Eventually sharp footsteps sounded outside the door. Kinchloe scrambled to his feet as the door was flung open. Klink strode in, face cold and hard, followed by the Gestapo agent and his SS guards. Schultz took station by the end of the bed. He looked—if it was possible—tough. Tough and grim.

The Gestapo agent scanned the room. He jabbed a finger at Kinchloe. "What is _that_ doing here?"

Klink gave Kinchloe a scornful look. "The colonel's orderly," he said in a tone laden with derision. Kinchloe held his face impassive, standing at attention but with eyes downcast. Klink's voice lowered conspiratorially as he added, "A mere servant. To handle the… _unsavory_… aspects of tending a wounded man. I'm sure you understand."

The Gestapo agent still studied Kinchloe, who did likewise, but very, very discretely from the corner of his eyes. "Does it understand what we're saying? Does it speak German?"

"Hardly," Klink answered with a snort. "Those people are barely able to speak their own language," he added contemptuously.

Kinchloe held his breath and strove not to react. _God bless Kommandant Klink,_ was his thought, however. Klink knew Kinchloe had understood every word. _Keep it up, sir. You're playing him perfectly._

It was harder to stay still and play dumb, however, when the thug strode up to the bed and examined the colonel. First he tugged at the shackle, making sure it was locked.

"As you can see," Klink inserted, "he is being securely restrained and guarded."

Kinchloe had an abrupt hunch part of Klink's reasoning with the chains was to make certain the Gestapo agent and his SS lapdogs couldn't just physically snatch the colonel and take him out of here.

Then the agent pulled back the sheet, studying the bandages. Kinchloe did toss a quick glance at the Kommandant when the thug pried up the corner of the gauze. Hogan writhed and moaned but didn't wake. The Kommandant gave Kinchloe a tight 'no' shake of his head. Kinchloe held still, fighting his own struggle not to move or react. The thug took hold of Hogan's chin, turning his head to study his pallid face.

Then the Gestapo agent straightened and turned back to the Kommandant. "This does not appear to be a minor injury. Why did you not take the prisoner to a hospital for medical treatment. Does not your own Luftwaffe regulations and that _Geneva Convention_—" He spat the phrase out like it burned his mouth to even say it. "—demand it?"

"What business is it of the Gestapo?" Klink retorted, startling Kinchloe with his sharpness. Thank the Maker it wasn't Hochstetter standing here—Klink could not have pulled this off in front of him. "This is a matter I need report only to the Luftwaffe High Command and to the Red Cross." Then Klink stepped nearer to the Gestapo agent, lowering his voice. "My dear Captain," he said in a smarmy, just-between-you-and-me tone, "surely you do not think a loyal officer of the Reich would willingly waste supplies needed by our own glorious forces on an enemy prisoner."

There was a long study by the Gestapo agent of Klink before he answered. Kinchloe silently rooted for the thug to buy Klink's act. "Yes," the agent said eventually. "Good work. But," he added threateningly, "this particular prisoner is considered to have some value." Kinchloe again had to fight not to react. "Bear that in mind. Don't let him die… yet."

"Yes, of course, Captain," Klink agreed briskly. "If the prisoner appears to be in mortal danger, I will, indeed, see to it he has treatment." _Ease back, Kommandant, _Kinchloe thought as Klink approached his babble point. _Don't lose your grip now._ _We just got a Gestapo-authorized ticket to take the colonel to a hospital if we need to. _Kinchloe snuck a glance at Hogan, writhing and shifting even under the morphine's effect. _And I think we need to. Soon._

The agent abruptly dismissed Hogan from his attention much as he had Kinchloe—objects dealt with and of no further interest.

"Strange," the agent said challengingly to Klink, "that this shooting incident should happen so near in time to the incident at the Mannheimer Bridge."

"I'm not sure which day the Mannheimer Bridge was sabotaged," Klink said, "but you've seen my records. You know when the escape attempt took place. Obviously there can be no connection."

The Gestapo agent went sharply nose-to-nose with Klink. Kinchloe could see the Kommandant flinch and blanch, though he held his ground. "And strange that you should suddenly transfer away three guards who witnessed the shooting before we could question them."

Stuttering a bit, Klink said, "I had no idea the Gestapo would want to question them, Captain. Those three were transferred because they _permitted_ this escape attempt to happen." His demeanor firmed. "I will not tolerate that sort of sloppy behavior under my command."

The Gestapo agent gave a significant glance at Sergeant Schultz's belly. "Sloppy," he murmured in a scary way. "Of course, Herr Kommandant. But without those witnesses I can't even determine for my report who shot this prisoner. Two guards I interviewed both claimed to be the one."

"Well, everyone wants the honor…" Klink began, slipping into his weaselly voice.

"It was me, Herr Captain," Schultz suddenly burst in, straightening to attention. Every eye snapped over to him. Digging into his pocket, Schultz pulled out a flattened rifle bullet. Kinchloe held his breath as Schultz held it up. "When the medic took this from the prisoner, I kept it… as a souvenir." He jutted his chin out defiantly.

Kinchloe felt Klink and Schultz hold their breaths along with him awaiting the thug's reaction.

"The Kommandant promised me a three day pass as a reward," Schultz added and Kinchloe was certain he could see a gleam in the guard's eye to match the scowl crossing Klink's face at this spontaneous claim he'd now have to support.

"Very well," the thug finally said. Everyone released their breath. "Good work."

As the Gestapo and SS stomped out of the room, Klink turned back to give first Kinchloe, than Hogan a studied look.

"Hmph!" Klink made the sound, then slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Waking was bright white and fuzzy this time. The first few seconds of vague disconnect stretched out longer and longer. Hogan grew progressively more aware of himself and his surroundings yet without the horrific slam of pain seizing him. He waited for it, but it didn't come. His body remained distantly removed from himself. He recognized the pleasant lull of the morphine, and cherished it. He didn't care for the lack of clarity of thought, but the alternative had been misery incarnate.

"Colonel," Kinchloe's soft voice intruded on the white haze.

"Hmm…" was all he could manage. He blinked several times until he could focus on the familiar face hovering over him.

"You're gonna be all right now, sir," Kinchloe told him. "Turns out that Panzer at the bridge that you shot did get off a round. Schnitzer and Wilson missed it, but the x-ray showed it. They got that bullet out, sir. You're going to be all right now. And the German doctors truly only saw a bullet wound."

"Uh huh," Hogan murmured. He tucked away what Kinchloe said without trying to figure out what the words meant. Later. Maybe later he'd think about it. He drifted comfortably away.

* * *

Soothing hands. Comforting hands. A woman's touch. A woman's voice.

"Oh… Mary Sue, I love you," Hogan murmured with his eyes still closed.

"Nein, nein, Herr Oberst," the woman whispered sweetly to him. "Ich bin Fräulein Frieda."

"Frieda," Hogan echoed. "Ich liebe dir, Frieda."

"Das kenne ich schon," the nurse answered with an amused chuckle. She already knew that?

Coming to more coherent alert. He opened his eyes, staring around quickly. The nurse bore more than a passing resemblance to the one he'd fallen in love with in England—and despite that no doubt had had more than a few of her own patients fall in love with her too—but this angel's voice, in German, reminded him where he really was. The comfort shifted back into tension.

Tension slammed into fear.

He tried to move. Couldn't. It wasn't helpful hands that pinned him now. A clank of a chain and a sharp jerk halted his attempt to move. Hogan peered down. Handcuffs tethered one wrist to the bedrails, the other tied with gauze to a board that protected the IV needle. He stared around. He was in a hospital, obviously. Obvious, too, it was a German hospital. He gasped, pain shooting through his gut at his sudden movement even around the drugged numbness. He panting shallowly, fighting it.

"Ruhig," Mary… uh, Frieda murmured, trying to sooth him. "Atmen langsamer, Herr Oberst," she ordered. A familiar litany.

Hogan tried to slow his breathing again; tried to relax and not struggle against the pain, or against the restraints. He was only partly successful.

"Nurse," a familiar voice said, still in German. "Please leave us."

* * *

The rotund woman, well past her prime, with the plain face marched out of the hospital room after first admonishing Klink not to upset her patient. Klink closed the door behind the night duty nurse.

"How are you feeling?" Klink asked as he walked up to the bedside. Though he lay still, there was really no mistaking the disquiet in Hogan's eyes.

"Better," he answered still staring at Klink.

Klink nodded. The only outward sign of his distress was his pull against the cuffs. Frowning, Klink said, "You're going to hurt yourself."

Hogan looked abruptly at his wrist; at the metal cutting in. Klink could see the effort in him as he tried to surrender to yet another thing he had no ability to fight.

"Why…?"

Seriously, Klink told him, "You're an important prisoner of war who was shot while attempting to escape, Colonel. You've been allowed considerable liberties in the past, but the situation has changed with this 'escape attempt'." Klink's voice oozed sarcasm at the words. "This is a civilian hospital with no secure facilities for prisoners. You must, and will be, restrained and guarded. There is also a guard—not Schultz—posted outside this door. Accept it."

Klink scowled as he looked down at Hogan while he fought a private battle to cease his resistance, something entirely contrary to his nature. His prisoner was in a weakened state from a serious traumatic injury, heavily drugged, and yet… something else was at work within him here and now. With his frown deepening, Klink realized he'd seen something like this look Hogan now wore before, in times past, in the faces of comrades he knew haunted by things seen, done, lived. Hogan hadn't been like this before—not back at the camp while in severe pain. So it was…

Hiding his reaction by turning to draw a chair up to the bedside, Klink felt like an absolute heel. It was being handcuffed this way that disturbed Hogan so. It must be. What Klink had done to him on the road that night—kneeling, handcuffed, helpless, with a gun to his head… It must have affected Hogan more than he let show. Klink stiffened his resolve. He could not let compassion get in the way.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Klink said quietly. "You must remain restrained. It's for your own safety, too. Every measure of security must not only be taken, but must be _seen_ to be taken. The Gestapo is waiting. Waiting for one wrong move. Watching. And these aren't the local Gestapo. They were sent from Berlin. Hochstetter—" That got Hogan's attention, sharp, alert, and with more than a hint of danger shining out of his eyes. "—sent his lackeys to investigate the shooting, and… other incidents. Nothing must alert their suspicions or give them further openings." He didn't elaborate further. He didn't need to. "You must trust me," he added very softly.

After a minute of clear effort to rein himself in, Hogan let out a long breath and stopped pulling so hard at the chain. "Yes, sir," he said eventually, looking upward at ceiling. "I was… um… it was… The Gestapo, when I was first captured… they, uh…" He broke off.

Oh. So it wasn't just what Klink had put him through on the road. He'd forgotten there had been months of dark experience at the Gestapo's hands. And heavens-knew-what of the experiences in his even more distant, and mysterious, past.

"Morphine makes for strange dreams," Klink murmured dismissively, "and odd thoughts."

"Yeah," Hogan agreed. "That must be it."

After a moment of studied avoidance, Klink asked, "Do you recall your Sergeant Kinchloe talking to you?"

Hogan pondered. "Something about a bullet?"

With a nod, Klink said, "Yes. You were apparently shot twice, not once. While. Trying. To. Escape." Hogan's lips twitched slightly at the emphasis, but at least this time he didn't try to argue. And there genuinely had been a bullet wound, so what had caused the other injuries…? Klink shoved aside the thought. He couldn't ask; emphatically did not want to know.

"I appreciate," Hogan said, tugging a bit at the cuffs, "all your help, sir. With… everything."

Looking at him steadily, Klink said, "Well, I don't appreciate it." Hogan's eyes flicked up to meet Klink's. Hogan squinted questioningly. "I must tell you something, Colonel Hogan," Klink went on. "I must make myself perfectly clear on this matter."

Klink glanced toward the closed door, then pulled the chair closer to the bed. He leaned toward Hogan, lowering his voice. "I have told you before that one day you would go too far. You have. This time you went too far."

"I thought I only got about five feet from the fence," Hogan protested innocently. Klink clenched the bedrail to keep from slapping him.

"I don't mean that," Klink grated, "and you know it. Damn you, Hogan! I transferred three of my guards out of the camp, sent them to the Front, to almost certain deaths, because of you. They were decent men who didn't deserve that but they couldn't be counted on to lie on your account." He tapped his chest. "_I_ have lied. _I_ have falsified records. Lied to the Gestapo. Put every man in the camp, both guards and prisoners, in peril." He stopped to contain his temper. He hadn't meant to get angry. "I have looked the other way on your activities, tolerated your schemes, even cooperated as far as I could. But, this time you have gone too far. Too many people saw too many things. Too many lies had to be piled on top of each other. How many lives should be the price of yours?"

"Sir, I…"

"Silence," Klink snapped, though still low. "I believe we have an understanding between us on a number of matters. No pretense—you know I have no… _fondness_… for those who are running my country. But it _is_ my country. I have no wish to throw my life away for _your_ cause." He had to stop. No pretense, he'd just said, so be honest about it, Klink told himself. "I have no wish to throw my life, nor those lives I'm responsible for, away on account of your recklessness. And you are. You are growing more reckless. More brazen. Taking chances that expose me and others to danger on your account. And you are doing this as the situation grows ever more dangerous. I have warned you before about Hochstetter. Let me warn you again. The Gestapo has you marked. _He_ has you marked, and with Hochstetter it's personal. He won't quit until he has you.

"You must stop," Klink finished with harsh emphasis.

"Yes, sir," Hogan murmured. It was acknowledgement of the words, Klink realized, not of the order. Hogan remained silent a long time, looking toward the ceiling, apparently contemplating what Klink had said. He tugged absently at the cuffs, clicking the chain rhythmically.

Finally, Hogan looked over at Klink. "I have a duty to perform, sir," he said formally. He hesitated before adding, "Whatever the cost."

Klink took a moment to answer. "As do I," Klink told him. "As do I."

Standing, Klink put on his cap, adjusting it to its exactingly calculated angle. He clasped his riding crop tightly. Without looking down at his most troublesome prisoner—more troublesome, and potentially deadly, than all the others combined—Klink said, "After those ten days you spent in the cooler after your previous 'escape attempt', I believe you understand that I do have the ability to halt your activities and keep you contained if I choose to do so." He looked down, meeting and holding Hogan's eyes. "Don't make me choose to do so. I may overlook much. I _will_ overlook much," he added softly, then firmed, "but there are limits, Hogan. If I see you about to take an action I consider precipitous, I will stop you."

Without waiting for, or expecting, a response, Klink strode over to the door. With the hand on the knob, he turned back to the bed. "And, Hogan…" The expression that met Klink's look was serious and worried. "You have twenty days in solitary confinement remaining on your previous sentence. You have an additional thirty days for this 'escape'." He let the word have the full weight of irony in his emphasis. "When, and _where,_ you serve those days is entirely at my discretion."

To be continued...


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

_Episode 166, "Hogan's Double Life" –The sabotage of the Mannheimer Bridge comes back to haunt Hogan as a witness saw him at the bridge. A bit of a radical revision of this episode—it was Pruhst throughout the episode, but I've changed it to be Hochstetter as Hochstetter is the arch-villain of the series and this story._

* * *

**September 2, 1944**

"Welcome back, sir," his men greeted Colonel Hogan as he climbed gingerly from the back of the staff car, aided by Sergeant Kinchloe. Though Klink kept the security surrounding Hogan at the hospital relentlessly strict, he had allowed Kinchloe to remain with him. Wincing as he straightened, Hogan decided it wouldn't be hard, at least for a while, to adhere to Klink's suggestion he tone down his extracurricular activities. Healing well or not, moving too much or too fast—or really moving at all—hurt.

"Thank you. It's good to be home," Hogan told his men, waiting while Schultz freed his hands. Hogan and Klink exchanged a long, significant look as their escort—their Gestapo escort—paused outside the main gates. Then the vehicle's gears ground. It turned around and left in a cloud of dust. Klink gave Hogan a stern scowl, then he, likewise, spun and marched off quickly into his office.

"And happy anniversary, sir," Kinchloe added with a twinkle in his eye.

Hogan give him a puzzled glance as they walked slowly toward the barracks. "Huh?"

"It's two years ago today you first arrived at Stalag 13," Kinch said.

"Ha." Hogan gave a short laugh, then folded his arms across his middle with a grimace and a tight groan. "Arrived about the same way," he added as they entered the barracks. "In handcuffs, with a Gestapo escort, and not feeling exactly at my best."

Pausing to look around the drab room, and scruffy men, Hogan suddenly grinned. "But it sure is good to be home. It's a dump, and you men look like hell, but… heck, it's never looked better."

Seated at the end of the table, Hogan took in the chatter of all of them at once at the little 'welcome home' celebration. LeBeau was positively giddy over the liberation of Paris and impending freedom for all of France. _By Christmas, _remained the theme, stronger now than before. Hogan smiled as he sipped the watery coffee LeBeau had poured for him. By Christmas… it just may be.

* * *

Retreating to his office as soon as reasonably possible, aided by Kinch's quiet manipulations, Hogan stood a moment with his eyes closed. Arms folded across his sore midsection, he held still and focused on breathing. Then he carefully eased down on the bottom bunk, the mattress from the top folded over on one end to make a back rest. Not even noon and he was worn out. Happy anniversary, he echoed to himself. Like his first day in this barracks he felt like he'd wrestled a grizzly bear and lost. Nothing to do but go on. Unlike that day, though, the fight _was_ nearly over. Or so he fervently hoped.

Somehow, he couldn't quite make himself believe it.

"Come in," Hogan answered to the soft rap on his door.

Kinchloe entered, clipboard in hand, and studied Hogan carefully. "How are you doing, sir?"

"Tired," Hogan answered. "But okay. Won't be hard to take Klink's suggestion to throttle back for a while."

"Suggestion?" Kinch repeated, eyebrows raised.

"Well," Hogan allowed, "it may have been phrased more in the form of a threat."

"Yes, sir," Kinch said noncommittally as he pulled a stool up near the bunk. He examined Hogan with a worried expression on his face. "'Throttle back'?"

"He may have used the word 'stop'," Hogan admitted, growing a touch irked.

Kinch frowned. "Sir, we weren't able to speak freely at the hospital. And, quite frankly, sir, I was more than a little concerned about your state of mind…"

"Huh?" Did Kinch see how unnerved the constant restraints had made him; the unbidden flashes of memory the restricted, helpless position called up?

"I mean, sir," Kinch fixed a puzzled look at Hogan, "Your choice of nurses to hit on was… odd."

Oh. Okay. "Mmmm…" Hogan made the sound one of thoughtful joy. "Mary Sue… or as she's known in Germany, Frieda. A goddess. An angel in disguise sent to earth."

"That's what I mean, sir," Kinch said, looking even more concerned. "That was not an attractive woman."

Hogan chuckled, then winced again. "Kinch, I hope you never find out, but everyone falls in love with his nurse. And how she looks makes no difference whatsoever."

"Ah, I see," Kinch said coolly, then a hint of teasing crept into his tone. "So, I suppose I should get a message to Tiger that it's over between you two."

Hogan just glared at him. Then he gestured toward the clipboard. "So, what do you got for me?" Kinch handed the clipboard to Hogan, letting him read the top message for himself. Hogan let out a long sigh and shook his head. "London's orders are almost word-for-word what Klink said to me. Lacking only the threat of getting tossed in the cooler or dragged off to Colditz, that is. Lay off the sabotage. Stop taking risks. Lay low." He peered over at Kinch. "Echoes of the Burkhalter-is-Nimrod theory? Klink reports to Burkhalter. Burkhalter to London. London to us? Tinker to Evers to Chance? Or in this case Evers to Tinker to... someone else entirely." He rubbed his temple, shaking his head.

"Hard to say, Colonel," Kinch answered.

"Lies and secrets. Double-lives. Triple-lives. Is anyone who he really says he is?" Hogan pondered aloud.

"Are you, sir?" Kinch murmured.

"Sometimes I'm not sure I know myself anymore." Hogan stared again at the message from London. "Blowing up the Mannheimer Bridge was on their orders. Just chance it went bad."

"I know, sir," Kinch said softly. "I think what happened scared London as much as it scared us. They tried three times to get medical supplies through to us and failed." Kinch's head lowered a moment as he added, "Third try the plane was shot down. No survivors." Hogan's breath caught. He hadn't known that. Klink's words about the price of Hogan's life raced through his mind. Kinchloe went on, "London needs us—needs you—alive and operating more for the intelligence work than the sabotage. The situation is getting much more dangerous out there. And, quite honestly… you have been taking progressively more risks right along."

"Hmph… Also something Klink said," Hogan muttered.

Kinch hung his head down a moment, then said, "Sir, permission to speak free…"

"Just say what's on your mind," Hogan snapped.

Frowning at him, Kinch said, "Both the Kommandant and Schultz knew right away your injury wasn't caused by the guards shooting you. They both, the Kommandant in particular, went to extremes to protect you. Let's face it, he's not the bravest man on earth. It wasn't easy for him, even though he really came through. For us, for him, for London… you gotta play it safe, sir."

Hogan handed the clipboard back and rubbed his eyes.

Eventually he said softly, "No, Kinch. I cannot sit back and 'play it safe' while others are giving their lives up every day. This is my fight as much as anyone's. It a lot of ways, more." He turned to meet Kinch's eyes steadily. "I have no intention of throwing my life way. I won't take chances I don't have to take. I don't have any sort of death wish. But if anyone in this camp has to put his life on the line—it's gonna be me."

* * *

**October 21, 1944**

Hogan propped his feet up on the low stone wall outside the Hofbrau and tilted his chair back. A break in the clouds let warm sunshine beam down on the park and outdoor café. The breeze carried quiet, homey sounds—children laughing as they played, a low murmur of traffic. A dozen of the Stalag 13 prisoners, most from Barracks Two, spent more time leaning on their shovels than they spent filling bomb craters in the square, yet no one chastised them. Schultz used his rifle as a walking stick as he roamed slowly about. Langenscheidt exchanged banter in half-understood English with LeBeau and Kinchloe. Sipping his beer, Hogan let out a small, contented sigh. It was just a darned nice day.

"This would be called 'Indian Summer', if we weren't in the wrong country, on the wrong continent," Hogan commented. This time his sigh was a tad wistful.

"Indian Summer," Klink echoed softly. Hogan glanced across the table at him. He also leaned back in his chair, boots resting on the wall, yet not quite as relaxed-looking as Hogan. Klink managed to keep a hint of that stiff, German military look about him even when casually relaxed. It was a gift. Or a curse. Actually, Klink had lightened up considerably in the past weeks—the past apparently _quiet_ weeks. This outing, Hogan's first 'official' one since his shot-while-attempting-to-escape recovery, had more the feel of a reward to it than a work detail. The Kommandant was no doubt grateful for Hogan's compliance (or so he thought) with Klink's demand he stand down from his activities. He didn't know they had just reverted to their more carefully covert, concealed patterns of the early days of the operation. A few revisions in operations, a few (quite a few) deceptions… And everyone was happy again.

Well, almost everyone. Keystone cop #2 glowered at Hogan from a short distance away beyond the stone wall. His personal guard, followed him like a sullen shadow, remaining ever near and watchful. Interesting, Hogan considered, that this guard had remained in camp after Klink's purge. Maybe #2 had been willing to lie for Hogan's benefit so he'd still be around long enough to have a chance to shoot Hogan personally. Hogan gave #2 a sweet, if somewhat taunting smile. The guard twitched the barrel of his weapon more threateningly at Hogan and tickled his finger near the trigger. Yup, charming fellow.

Even though Hogan had given his usual word-of-honor pledge to attempt no escapes today, it wasn't escapes that concerned the Kommandant where Hogan was concerned. Yet Klink had missed the sleight-of-hand between Hogan and the barmaid; didn't know about the little slip of paper now resting in Hogan's jacket pocket.

"Indian Summer," Klink repeated, then commented with a chuckle. "You can't imagine how disappointed I was when I found out Indiana wasn't part of the wild west." At Hogan's puzzled look, Klink explained, "When you first arrived at Stalag 13, and I was reading through your file. One of papers said you were from Indianapolis, Indiana." He cast a genuine grin at Hogan. "I had rather hoped you were an American cowboy. You know… Indiana, Indians, cowboys and Indians." Klink shrugged. "I used to adore American cinema. The westerns especially." Clearing his throat, he said gruffly, "Stick 'em up, pardner, or I'll drop ya where you stand." Hogan grinned broadly. Klink's John Wayne impression was more than passable.

With the smile still on his lips, Hogan glanced over at the Kommandant. Klink idly watched the inactive prisoners and the inattentive guards, apparently not bothered by either. A bottle of schnapps, with one untouched glass poured from it, sat on the table. Klink toyed with the glass but wasn't drinking.

"Sorry I disappointed you," Hogan said.

Klink returned his teasing look with an unreadable expression. "Oh, you turned out to be a 'cowboy' all right. Just no horse."

Laughing aloud, Hogan said, "Yeah, I did used to get called a 'cowboy' sometimes in flight school. That was a ways back, and the only time you've ever seen me fly I crashed the plane."

Klink's expression didn't twitch. "On purpose," he corrected. "And I wasn't referring to flying."

_Well now, _Hogan thought. _The Kommandant seems like he's aiming toward a heart-to-heart. I wonder how far he'll go this time?_

"So…" Klink began slowly, looking back over the town plaza, "if we were sitting like this in America, what would be different?"

Hogan considered the question a moment. There'd be no guards with guns. No one in uniforms covered with swastikas. No submachine gun barrel pointed unwaveringly his way. But overall, people would just look less… wary. Less fearful. Scowling, Hogan sipped his beer while he contemplated. With a faint chuckle, Hogan answered, "The beer would be cold."

That earned a smile from Klink. He was oddly thoughtful today. Umm… maybe not so odd, for Klink said distantly, "The Americans took Aachen today."

"First German city taken," Hogan commented, raising his mug in a silent toast. Stunned understated his reaction when Klink raised his glass silently and clicked it against Hogan's mug. Toasting a German defeat? Or toasting an American victory?

"That could be taken for treason, you know," Hogan murmured.

Klink snorted softly. "So could a lot of things." He looked distant again. "I always wanted to visit your country. I don't suppose I'll get the chance now." With a sideways glance at Hogan, he added, "I hope your people treat us more kindly than we treated those nations we conquered." He let out a sigh. "I hope--pray--your people get here before the Russians do." He sounded bleak at that thought.

Hogan studied him a moment. "How long have you known you were going to lose?" he asked.

With a shrug, Klink said, "A year… a year and a half. It was summer '43, I think."

Squinting, Hogan had to ask, "Things weren't going all that well for the Allies then. How...? Why?"

He met Hogan's eyes. "When I heard you arguing with that Captain Ritter who came to visit. The things you said to him, the power of your conviction… I realized there was no way we could defeat America's might, and Britain's resolve, when people like you were fighting us. It was also the first time I realized I fully agreed with your arguments, and not Ritter's."

Studying him closely, Hogan asked sharply, "Then why are you still fighting for them?"

With a steady meeting of eyes, Klink said, "What choice is there?"

Hogan held the look a long time, then turned away with a small smile. He sipped casually at his beer, watching the prisoners and guards in the plaza. "You could surrender." Hogan suggested.

"Hmph! You could tell me the truth." Klink countered.

"The truth about what, Kommandant?" Hogan asked in his best innocent who-me? tone.

"Everything," Klink said flatly. "Everything that's been going on at Stalag 13 all these years. All the strange events. How it is you seem to know everyone in Germany. What really happened to General Biedenbender? How you know that Russian spy, Marya. Why you never escaped. How could you possibly not escape? Hmm? Why didn't you go back to England? Back to flying? Surely you could have. How do you get in and out? You've been in and out of the camp more times than I can count. The sabotage in the area!" He turned to Hogan with a glitter in his eyes. "Everything."

Hogan let a humorless smile trace across his face as he shook his head slowly. "Nope. First you surrender the camp to me, then I'll tell you everything. I'll show you everything, too. The tunnel system, the radio, the machine shop, the subway, the docking port in the underground river for the Allied submarines… Heck, even the elevator." He flicked a real grin at Klink. "Everything."

Klink stared hard at him a moment. "Fine," he snapped. To Hogan's surprise, he snatched a napkin out of the holder in the middle of the café table, patted his pockets until he found the stub of a pencil, and began to write on the napkin. When he finished, he signed with a grand flourish and handed it to Hogan.

Reading, Hogan's mouth fell open. On the napkin was an entirely correct unconditional surrender of Stalag 13 to Colonel Hogan from Kommandant Klink, written in both English and German, and signed.

"Are you drunk?" Hogan asked.

Klink tilted the nearly full bottle. "I don't think so."

Hogan reread the words, then scowled. There was one notable element missing. "You didn't date it," Hogan said, putting the napkin back down on the table. At the top Klink had written 'Date' and drawn a line.

"I'll date it when you're ready to tell me everything," Klink said.

"I'll tell you everything when you date it," Hogan countered.

"Stalemate," Klink muttered.

"Cripes, Kommandant," Hogan said in an exasperated tone. "You're sounding like that nut Hochstetter. There's really nothing to tell. So we've taken 'Goon baiting' to the extreme now and then, and, okay, I can't pretend you don't know I can get in touch with the Underground when I need to. But—come on!—the rest of all Hochstetter's crackpot theories about me? Sabotage? How could you possibly believe any of that nonsense?"

Klink flicked him a no-nonsense look. Low, he said, "Hogan, you blew up the Adolph Hitler Bridge right in front of me."

Stuttering a bit, Hogan countered, "That was for _your_ propaganda film. And _you_ provided the 'fake' explosives. I didn't know they were real!"

Without a twitch, Klink repeated, "Hogan, you blew up the Adolph Hitler Bridge right in front of me. Do you seriously think I didn't notice?"

Hogan lost the battle to stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Blew it up in front of Burkhalter, too," he murmured. "And got away with it clean. That. Was. Fun." Still unable to quell his mischievous smile, Hogan said, "But, seriously Kommandant… one time, an easy opening… can you blame me?"

"Mannheimer Bridge," Klink whispered, staring at him.

"Umgh." Hogan made the sound suddenly, rubbing his middle.

"You all right?" Klink asked without any real concern.

"Still get a twinge now and again," Hogan admitted.

"Hmph. Let's hope it's not fatal," Klink said.

"Indeed," Hogan agreed. Then brightly, and loudly, said, "Well, Major Hochstetter! How very nice to see you! Kommandant Klink and I were just saying it's been too long. Have you been away? A nice holiday on the Riviera? Allied tanks cut it short, perhaps?" As he came to his feet, Hogan crumpled the bar napkin with the surrender on it, dabbed his mouth with it, then casually dropped it on the table. Klink's hand covered it as he scrambled frantically to his feet.

"Hogan," Hochstetter sneered. The sneer change to contempt. "Herr Kommandant." He glanced around—not casually, more like he was sighting in targets. "A happy little picnic outing? Hmm?"

"Work detail," Klink said gruffly.

"With your high-security prisoner wandering about unsecured?" Hochstetter asked smarmily.

"Hardly," Hogan inserted with a snort. He gestured to Keystone cop #2. "Junior there never lets me out of his gunsights." Indeed, the guard didn't have to pretend to re-aim his submachine gun back at Hogan—the barrel had never strayed off of him.

"Mmm…" Hochstetter managed to make even an agreeable sound come out threateningly. "Indeed. Indeed," he murmured, dissecting Hogan and Klink with his eyes in slow, excruciating detail. Hogan held still. Klink gulped and flinched.

"Just passing through, Major?" Hogan asked pleasantly.

"Why, yes, Hogan," Hochstetter answered in an equally pleasant tone dripping with malice. "Just passing through on my way back to Berlin after investigating some _incidents_ around here." He nodded and gave a crisp Nazi salute. Hogan answered it with a sarcastic wave. Klink ignored it.

As they settled back down, it no longer seemed like such a nice, tranquil day. Hochstetter is like a wolf, Hogan thought, lurking in the woods in the dark, just waiting for the chance to sink his teeth in.

Turning to the Kommandant, Hogan asked casually, "Can I have my napkin back?"

With a scowl, Klink said, "I think I'll hold on to it for a while." He threw a sideways glance at Hogan. "Maybe you can have it back as a Christmas present."

* * *

"…born in Ohio, graduated the aviation cadets, graduated 3rd in his class…"

Hogan listened closely to the Gestapo agent's voice over the coffeepot. What was his name? Pruhst. Major Pruhst. Nah… he wasn't the one behind this. It was Hochstetter. Hochstetter sent in another lackey to test out the waters.

"The Gestapo is interested in anyone who is a threat to the state," Pruhst snarled.

"This man is a prisoner. He's harmless." Klink protested with admirable conviction.

"Our records show this area has the highest rate of sabotage and underground activity," Pruhst told him.

"Really? Our little area?" Klink voice quavered a bit. _Steady, Klink, steady,_ Hogan silently offered encouragement.

"Our statistical department has been working 'round the clock for the past five months, sifting information on every known person in this area and relating them to the outrages which have taken place here," Pruhst said. Yeah… that was Hochstetter's signature right there. About five months ago—June it was—Burkhalter told Hogan that Hochstetter had been recalled to Berlin for just that purpose.

"You people are doing a wonderful job." Klink said weakly.

"We come to a conclusion we find difficult to believe or explain. The evidence all points to one man—your Colonel Hogan." Every man in Hogan's office shifted uncomfortably at that, Hogan included. Yes, no doubt about it. Hochstetter was behind this. Only now he wasn't alone. He'd convinced others. Hogan felt the walls close in a bit tighter than they already were.

Firmly, Klink protested, "That is impossible. He's a prisoner."

"The evidence is overwhelming," Pruhst insisted. "Klink. When the Mannheimer Bridge was blown up two months ago, there was a witness. He saw the leader in the moonlight. He saw him very plainly. His description of that man fits Hogan exactly." Hogan sighed. His recollections of that night had more than a few blank spots sandwiched between the fuzzy areas, but he recalled the stunned expression of the farmer with the wagon staring at him vividly. Scheiße.

"But Hogan is an ordinary looking man," Klink said as he had said many times before. "He looks like a lot of people."

"I need to send a picture of Colonel Hogan to the witness in Berlin. When he makes a positive identification they will have to listen to me." _They'll have to listen to Hochstetter._

* * *

After Major Pruhst left, Klink glanced back out the window at Hogan, still with a cluster of other prisoners gathered around him. Did he know what had just taken place? He'd been so quiet lately, so cooperative. No strange events. No escapes that weren't escapes. He was doing as Klink had told him to do. Then a sudden burst of suspicion clamped down on Klink. Hogan's compliant behavior was more suspicious than his normal, sneaky behavior.

Stepping over to the photograph of Hitler hanging on the wall, Klink pulled it out a bit. Yes, the disconnected wire was still there. Still disconnected.

* * *

"You have a problem," Klink told Hogan.

"That Gestapo officer?" Hogan asked, feigning ignorance. "What did he want?"

"You," Klink said, then spelled out what Pruhst had said. "And what will be found when he shows that photograph of you to this witness?"

"What could he possibly find?" Hogan protested. "Your own reports to Berlin are quite clear—I was shackled to a bed, barely conscious, when the Mannheimer Bridge blew up." His eyes narrowed as he watched Klink blanch.

Klink gulped. "_We_ have a problem."

* * *

Hogan felt his men's concern; understood their heightened worry that this time it was Hogan, alone, and not the team who was in trouble.

It took Kinchloe's help to work through his blurred memories of the night of the Mannheimer Bridge incident, followed by a sleepless night pacing his office to come up with a plan. It might work… With Klink's help, it just might throw the Gestapo off his trail. What was he wearing that night? A captain's uniform. A captain from the 15th Corps. Another piece came from Carter's intercept of Klink's mail—an invitation to a party, a party given by Field Marshal Von Leiter. Now to put the pieces together…

* * *

"I will cooperate," Kommandant Klink said, "but I have one condition, Colonel Hogan." He aimed his sternest expression at Hogan.

Appearing somewhat surprised, Hogan asked, "What is that, sir?"

Wagging his finger, Klink ordered, "Under no circumstances is Sergeant Carter to make an appearance in the uniform of a Luftwaffe general.

He would treasure Hogan's expression all the way to the gallows.

* * *

It was Major Hochstetter who strutted back into Klink's office, not Pruhst, confirming Hogan's suspicions as to who was really behind this.

"You're sure," they heard Hochstetter say over the coffeepot bug in answer to the phone call. "There's no mistake. Good! The witness says there's no doubt about it. The man in the picture is the man who blew up the Mannheimer Bridge."

Klink answered with convincing realism. "I can't understand it. I thought I knew Hogan so well. Why did he not confide in me? What am I saying?" He added in half-panic.

But Hochstetter was obviously not listening. "I knew it was him all along. I knew it!" Hogan heard the promise of slow death in those words, and in Hochstetter's voice.

Klink voice came through with utter honesty. "I supposed that deep down I really suspected him. There's always been something shifty about the man that's always rubbed me the wrong way." Hogan had to stifle a chuckle at that. Klink added, "Well, we got him."

Hochstetter's voice was chilling. "In the morning I'll arrest him and drag him back to Berlin with me." Hogan was hard pressed to contain a reaction to that.

"I can assure you he will be safe here until then," Klink said. Hogan considered that were it not for Klink's visible, obvious, and strict security measures taken with Hogan in the past weeks, Hochstetter would never have bought that line.

* * *

Hochstetter was a terrible chess player, Klink decided about five moves into the game. Klink, however, had been trained by Hogan in the art of leading an opponent through a long, deceptive series of moves. His clear path to a win—both in the chess game and his anticipated victory over Colonel Hogan—had the nasty little Gestapo thug in an uncharacteristically jovial mood. So cheerful and confident of victory on both fronts, in fact, he was willing to trust Klink's security concerning Hogan, and Schultz's attentiveness, to go to Field Marshal Von Leiter's party.

"I'll be ready in forty-five minutes," Klink told Hochstetter. Stall him, Hogan had said. Come up with some good excuse. "You don't expect me to go in these rags, do you?" That was a good excuse, wasn't it? Ha! And Hogan thought _he_ was the master at these games of manipulation!

Klink's mood soared. He smiled. This was going so well. Smoothly. Indeed, this deceptive ploy was nearly as fun as their trip to England.

* * *

Klink's smile faded when he saw Hogan across the room. No, this wasn't fun. This was life and death, his and Hogan's. Klink swallowed, more scared than he'd realized he would be. "That's Hogan with a moustache and glasses," Klink said, pointing.

"It's hardly a disguise at all. I've got my man now." Hochstetter almost growled as he said it.

_Act naturally, _Hogan had said. Klink stomped his foot. "It's disgraceful."

"Hmm?"

"He was invited," Klink said. "I wasn't."

They strode across the room, to hear Hogan in the midst of an enthusiastic story. "You must remember it was my first safari," Hogan was saying. "The only rhinoceros I'd seen before was in a zoo." The story was complicated, Klink realized, verbally, that was, for a non-native speaker of a language, with the sort of words one normally didn't learn in language classes. As well as Klink spoke English, after his stumbles during their trip to London he realized just how hard it would be for a foreigner to manage this kind of tale.

Hogan raised an imaginary rifle. "Well he came charging at me and I took careful aim, pulled the trigger and nothing happened. He was still charging at me. And there was no time to get out of the way. So I took out my saber, sliced him down the middle and let him pass me on both sides."

The crowd, Klink included, laughed agreeably. Hochstetter, like a wolf on the scent, didn't.

"You know Captain Schafstein?" Field Marshal Von Leiter asked, puzzled by the reactions of the Luftwaffe colonel and the Gestapo major.

"I think I do," Hochstetter said smugly.

Hogan took off his glasses. "Really," he said to Hochstetter. "I don't recall the meeting."

With a big grin, Klink leaned close to Hogan. "Do you remember me, _Captain Schafstein_?"

"I can't say that I do. And yours is a face one doesn't easily forget," Hogan answered smoothly. They'd rehearsed this part.

"Hogan. You're in deep trouble," Klink said sharply in English. Also rehearsed.

Not reacting to the words spoken in English, Hogan asked coolly, "What did you say? What did you call me?"

"It wasn't 'Captain Schafstein'," Hochstetter said so very, very smugly.

* * *

"_Hogan can't be in two places at the same time. We have to get back to camp right away."_

"I don't know, Major," Klink said again as he drove far slower than necessary back toward Stalag 13. "Certainly Captain Schafstein bore an amazing resemblance to Colonel Hogan, but honestly…" He glanced briefly at Hochstetter, then pointedly took a turn down a side road. It led back to camp, but by a somewhat longer route.

"It was Hogan," Hochstetter grated. He smelled the blood in the air and was eager to move in for the kill.

"Oh, please, Major," Klink said. "You heard this man speak. And you've heard Hogan speaking German. There's no similarity in the accents, or the pronunciation. Major Hochstetter, I've dealt with foreigners quite extensively for years. Far more than you have. I've had English-speaking prisoners try to pass themselves off as Germans many times while attempting to escape. Very few can manage the language that fluently, no matter how well trained they may be in it, much less speak with an accent that natural."

"Hmm…" Hochstetter made the sound dubiously. He was starting to have doubts, Klink realized hopefully. "I don't know…"

"You know, Major, I myself speak English quite well," Klink went on, pressing the point, "yet how long do you think I would last in—I don't know—England without them realizing I wasn't British?" He waggled his finger in the air, slowing down the auto a bit more as he took one hand off the steering wheel. "I can tell you—not two minutes. What's more, I seriously doubt I could translate that same story Captain Schafstein told into English. Nashorn, Großwildjagd… I simply don't know what those words are in English. They're just too uncommon. How would a mere bomber pilot learn such things?" He held his breath waiting for the reaction. Too much? Hogan always went overboard and yet made it all work out.

"Maybe…"

Klink let out his breath and drove a little slower.

* * *

"Tattoos are not easy to get rid of," Klink whispered conspiratorially to Hochstetter as they turned from a puzzled Hogan. Klink could tell at a glance, as Hochstetter could not, that the chess game in progress was not one of Hogan's matches. The pattern was wrong.

"Do you know what I'm thinking, Klink?" Hochstetter said.

_Mein Gott, I hope so._ "Yes, a remarkable resemblance." Absolutely remarkable. Klink flicked a glance at Hogan's utterly innocent face.

"That means there really must be two of them," Hochstetter said. Klink could see him recalculating every conclusion he had ever made.

"The one your witness identified was not Hogan," Klink said, pushing Hochstetter to the inevitable conclusion.

"But Erik Schafstein. We must get back to the party at once."

* * *

One more scene to play, Klink thought as he approached Hogan.

"That's the ol' ballgame, fellas," Hogan said as the baseball went over the fence. Klink tucked the phrase away for future use.

The guards came to alert as the ball rolled away and Sergeant Kinchloe chased it toward the warning wire. The guards always came to alert now any time Colonel Hogan was near. The heightened security surrounding Hogan had not been allowed to slacken. Some of it was real. Some of it was show for any of Hochstetter's men who might be watching. Today's scene between Klink and Hogan was to be played for one of them—one of the new, replacement guards. Hogan had advised Klink he was a spy of Hochstetter's. Klink didn't ask how he knew.

"I suppose you're wondering what happened last night," Klink said within earshot of the guard/Gestapo spy.

"As a matter of fact, I was," Hogan said.

"I think this will amuse you. Major Hochstetter thought you were a spy and that you blew up the Mannheimer Bridge. Ha, ha." Klink laughed artificially. It was harder to fake a laugh than anything else. "That's funny, isn't it? You don't think that's funny, eh?" Hochstetter's man edged nearer.

Hogan folded his arms and glowered. "No, I don't, sir."

"You're missing the point. You see…" Wasn't Hogan supposed to think Hochstetter's foolishness was funny? Isn't that what they had rehearsed?

"You know what I see?" Hogan cut in. "After all the time you've known me, you actually thought I was a saboteur? A man walking around with dynamite?"

"Well, you don't have to put it that way," Klink said. Really. _Don't_ put it that way.

"You have a very low opinion of me." Sometimes, yes, but…

"It wasn't that way at all," Klink tried to say.

Hogan pressed it. "You know, I think you owe me an apology."

What? What about the Adolph Hitler Bridge? No, don't think that. Hochstetter's man was listening. "Hogan, I… all right, I apologize."

"Accepted. See? No hard feelings," Hogan said magnanimously. The snot.

"Hmph. You know, I like you," Klink admitted, "but I wish you had Captain Schafstein's sense of humor!" Hogan's lips twitched a bit at that with a laugh he fought to contain.

Hochstetter's spy moved away, apparently satisfied he'd heard enough to make his report. Klink let out a faint sigh as he did so.

"Dodged the bullet again," Hogan commented, watching the spy/guard move away.

Scowling, Klink said, "What an incredibly inappropriate idiom!"

Hogan did chuckle at that. "Given the circumstances, I suppose so. Thanks, Kommandant. Again."

With a shake of his head, Klink said, "This won't stop him, you know." Hogan gave him a questioning look. "Hochstetter. Surely you realize he's on his way back to Berlin right now… to investigate the real Captain Erik Schafstein. What do you think will happen when he finds a photograph of Captain Schafstein? Eh, Hogan? What happens when he gets his hands on Schafstein's service record and compares it to these incidents he's been investigating?"

Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking very tired. "Yeah. Cripes. You're right. I hate it when you're right," he said shortly. Turning to Klink, said with a frown, "You know, I wish _you_ had Captain Schafstein's sense of humor."

To be continued...


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

**Mid-December 1944**

Waiting... worrying... Every minute of every day was spent waiting and worrying, it seemed to Hogan.. He waited for Hochstetter to reappear with the condemning proof it was he, and not that poor schmuck Captain Schafstein, who had sabotaged the Mannheimer Bridge; worried what would happen when that moment arrived. But, as the days and weeks turned into months and Hochstetter still did not appear, Hogan had to wonder what had happened? Was Schafstein also a "common sort", at least enough to confuse the witness? Had Schafstein gotten a Gestapo bullet in the head before he ever had a chance to protest his innocence?

Waiting, too, for the Allied advance, and worrying what the Germans would do about it. As every mile brought the promise of an end to all of this, it also heightened every moment into greater danger for those trapped behind the enemy lines. Klink had received orders to evacuate the prisoners deeper into Germany should the Allies draw near. No longer prisoners, they'd become hostages, pawns, or possibly the victims of a final, deadly vengeance. Klink had taken the risk of showing Hogan the order. But what to do about it? Even if Klink disobeyed the order, as he probably would, a company of SS was likely to show up to enforce it. Hogan and his men couldn't take on the SS in a stand-up fight, not with just light arms and not enough of those. It would be a slaughter and the other POWs, not just those at Stalag 13, would pay the price.

Waiting... By Christmas... By Christmas it could all be over.

Worrying... every moment, not knowing if the next would bring life or death.

Snow fell lightly one evening as the main gate opened to admit a car. Inside Barracks Two the man on watch called for the attention of the men seated around the main table. Moving to open the barrack's door a crack, Hogan watched the car stop in front of the Kommandant's office. A single officer stepped from the vehicle and peered briefly around the camp. Hogan tensed automatically. Was this it? Black uniform. A major.

No. Not Hochstetter. But the profile looked familiar…

Hogan quickly drew back, shutting the door to cut off the shard of light shining out into the night. An uncharacteristic stream of profanity burst from him.

"What is it, Colonel?" Kinchloe asked. "Who is that?"

A major now, and in a SS uniform no less. Gritting his teeth, Hogan stabbed a look toward Kinchloe. "None other than my dear cousin Rudy."

As one, Hogan and his men started toward his office and the coffeepot bug.

* * *

"…quite certain no one can hear us…" came Klink's voice as Kinchloe plugged the speaker in. The sound cut out. He wiggled the plug. "Not only is this office quite secure, but the prisoners are all confined to the barracks this time of night. I assure you, none of them could even know you're here."

"Very good," SS Major Rudolf Ritter's voice came over the speaker. Hogan bristled at the sound of his voice. The speaker crackled and cut out.

Hogan tilted his head and gave an angry sigh. "Well, I guess he's not here for old home week. Just as well. I'm not sure I could keep from killing him with my bare hands if I had to face him wearing that uniform." When the hell had Rudy gone from Wehrmacht to SS? Bastard.

Kinchloe toyed with the connection. The sound clarified. "…a glorious opportunity to use your unique skills to serve the Fatherland," they heard Ritter say to Klink.

"Just what Klink wants," LeBeau commented.

"I thought that's what he did for us," Kinchloe muttered.

"Unique skills indeed…" Newkirk started.

"Quiet!" Hogan snapped.

"Oh, Major… I'm flattered, and honored, but I'm quite certain no one else could take over my duties as Kommandant of the only prisoner of war camp in Germany with a perfect no-escape record. Ah, yes…" There was a derisive snort from the men as Klink reached full panic babble. Hogan shushed them again. "…much as I crave the glory of the battlefield, my duty lies here. So, sorry, Major, but I do thank you for stopping by…"

They heard the office door being opened.

"I haven't told you what the opportunity is," Ritter said flatly.

"Oh, well…"

"It's top secret, Herr Kommandant," Ritter spoke briskly. "It's called Operation Greif…"

Hogan came to full alert. Kinchloe pulled out a pad of paper and poised his pencil at ready.

"…sending English-speaking Germans behind the Allied lines to spearhead a…"

The speaker cut out. Kinchloe frantically wiggled the connection.

"…in American uniforms and dogtags taken from corpses and—not coincidentally to my visit—from POWs. I recalled your skill with American English from my previous visit and decided to give you the opportunity to…"

Klink weaseled his way out of the 'glorious opportunity', as Hogan expected he would. Only half-listening by then, Hogan processed the tidbits of information they'd overheard. English-speaking Germans in captured American uniforms. That could only mean one thing—the Germans were planning a covert action behind the American lines.

Hogan pondered a moment. His mom, his uncle… neither might forgive him, but he'd wring the rest of the information out of Rudy if he had to take him apart personally, inch by inch. Actually, with Rudy in that SS uniform, Hogan would enjoy every minute of making him talk, and it _would_ be personal. In the darkest corners of his soul, Hogan hoped Rudy didn't talk too soon.

* * *

Klink leapt to his feet as Major Ritter left the office. He paced rapidly to diffuse the nervous panic the major's 'glorious opportunity' had raised in him. Glancing at the photograph of Hitler on the wall he was grateful Ritter had come here under cover of night so as not to alert Hogan to his presence, grateful, too, Hogan had disconnected that microphone and so could not have heard what Major Ritter said.

But this was Hogan, master of deception and manipulation. Was the bug really dead? Klink had checked it himself. The microphone remained disconnected and he'd found no others in the office. But this was Hogan…

Klink stared hard at the picture of Hitler on the wall, then moved to it, pulling it away from the wall. The disconnected wire still showed reassuringly behind the photograph. Then he strained to pull the picture further away from the wall and bit back a harsh curse. Damn that Hogan! The disconnected wire was a decoy. The microphone was hooked up.

For about three seconds he merely stared at it. Then he made his decision.

Yanking open his desk drawer, Klink pulled out a file he'd long before prepared. Klink snagged his coat and hat and strode out decisively out of the office.

"Schultz!" he shouted for the sergeant to accompany him, and ordered two other guards to come along too as he marched across the compound to Barracks Two. The scramble inside the barracks as he flung the door open told them they'd been watching his approach yet were still taken by surprise at the suddenness. A pathetic array of homemade Christmas decorations scattered in the rush of cold air.

An apparently chaotic, but obvious, attempt to block the path to Hogan's quarters immediately formed. The two not-Schultz guards backed the prisoners off with threatening gestures with their weapons. A quick glance told Klink Hogan and his primary four were not in the main room.

Striding across the barracks, Klink threw open the door to Hogan's office. More scrambling, quickly stilled into poses of casualness. Not their best work, Klink considered. Sergeant Kinchloe was putting away a coffee pot, yet there was no scent of coffee brewing in the air. Hmph. They always used the pot on the stove anyhow. As he looked at Hogan, Klink saw him school his features into blandness, yet Klink could see the underlying anger in him. Dangerous anger.

"Kommandant," Hogan said with feigned surprise and pleasure. "How nice of you to stop in…"

"Take him," Klink snapped to the two real guards, pointing to Hogan. Klink spun and exited the barracks quickly. Standing in the falling snow, Klink waited impatiently. More guards drew near, wondering what was taking place. He ordered one to bring his car around, another to summon Captain Gruber.

Hogan, arms held by the two guards, was led from the barracks trailed by Schultz. Baffled at the abrupt rough behavior, Hogan asked, "What's going on, sir?" in a tone of aggrieved innocence.

Ignoring him, Klink ordered Schultz, "Call a roll call immediately."

"Jawohl," Schultz acknowledged, saluting repeatedly. He looked as baffled as Hogan.

Jabbing a finger at Hogan, Klink ordered the guards holding him, "Take him to the office. Search him, then handcuff him." Hogan's mouth fell open but the guards hauled him away before he could get out a word of protest.

Captain Gruber arrived on a run. "A full roll call," Klink ordered of Gruber, "with individual photographic identification of each prisoner from camp records." Gruber was a stickler—he'd do it in exacting detail, and tolerate no monkey business. It would take hours to accomplish and would keep the prisoners standing outside under clear guard for as long. Time enough.

Guard or prisoner, questions shone on every face, but all obeyed. Ignoring them all, Klink spun, marching back toward across the compound as his car ground to a halt in front of the office. Hogan, arms secured behind his back, and a dozen questions, and a hint of fear, in his eyes stared at Klink.

"Kommandant…" he began.

"Put him in the car," Klink snapped. "You two in front."

To the bustle and blare of a snap roll call in the middle of the night, Klink's staff car followed the tracks of Major Ritter's through the snow out the gates. As they drove away from Stalag 13, Hogan aimed a stunned look at Klink. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Fixing a hard glare at him, Klink said, "I am transferring you to Colditz. Effective immediately."

Hogan's mouth fell open, then closed as he tried to speak, then tried again. "You… you can't do that," he said, not sounding at all like his usual slick self. "It's… it's against the Geneva Convention to transfer a prisoner without warning."

Klink stared at him steadily. "I did warn you. I properly advised you to be prepared to leave with no further notice."

"That… that was months ago!"

"And yet it stands," Klink grated. He glanced out the window, then back over to Hogan. "I also warned you I would prevent you from taking any precipitous actions."

"I was just sitting in the barracks," Hogan protested. "We were gonna make Christmas cookies, for heaven's sake! With some for you!"

Klink continued to stare hard at him. "That microphone was hooked up," Klink said quietly. Hogan broke the eye contact and glanced away. Klink went on sharply, "If you've ever been honest with me, do so now. Tell me you didn't hear what Major Ritter said in my office. Tell me you wouldn't take extreme actions to stop him."

Turning toward the side window of the car, Hogan breathed heavily for a minute before turning back to Klink. Very low, even though he knew the two guards in the front seat spoke no English, Hogan said to Klink, emphasizing each word, "I said I have a duty to perform."

"As do I," Klink said with equal emphasis. Lowering his voice further, he added, "I'm sure your men will find a way to pass on the information. _Somehow_. As for you… I simply will not permit you to do what I know perfectly well you would do if given half the chance."

Hogan took a long time answering. "I wouldn't kill him," he said eventually.

"You would," Klink countered. "You'd have to."

* * *

Hogan stared unseeing out the window into the darkness for a long time. Klink was right. Horrible admission to make to himself, but true. Klink was right. Before he marched in and yanked him out, Hogan was on the verge of a precipitous action. Any cost, any consequences, he'd have taken to get at Rudy. Worse, he realized as he sat here in forced stillness, he was more interested in the personal retaliation than anything else.

He hated it when Klink was right more than he hated it when Hogan, himself, was wrong.

Finally facing Klink again, Hogan found the Kommandant watching him steadily. "All right," Hogan said with exaggerated calmness. "I was pretty hot at Rudy showing up in his little SS costume, but I'm all right now. I won't do anything dire. You don't have to send me away. I'll behave."

"A shallow lie," Klink said. "Carefully phrased. I've known you too long, Hogan, to believe that."

Hogan let out another long, slow breath. "You win," he said. "I give up. Surrender," he added with an insincere half-smile. "It's a long drive. Would you mind taking these handcuffs off?"

Without blinking, Klink asked, "Will you give your word not to attempt to escape? Your word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that you will not attempt to escape?"

After a long minute, Hogan shook his head and settled back on the car seat, squirming to get as comfortable as was possible.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Klink said in an exasperated tone. "Turn around."

Hogan turned. Klink unlocked one of the cuffs. When he brought his hands from behind his back, Klink refastened the cuffs with his hands in front of him. "Well, aren't you just a big softie," Hogan commented sarcastically.

"Hmph. You'll be the death of me yet, Hogan."

"We can but hope," Hogan responded with a dark look at the Kommandant which Klink met and returned. "Would you be willing to give a message to my men from me?"

"Certainly," Klink said.

Getting a slip of notepaper and a pencil from the Kommandant, Hogan quickly jotted down a message of instructions to Kinchloe. He handed the note to Klink with an expectant look.

Klink peered at it in the dim light. He tilted it toward a streetlight as they passed through a town. "This is in code," he said. He scowled at Hogan. "I can not pass a coded message from one enemy to another. It would be worth my life!" He folded the note in half and nodded at Hogan. "I'll have Schultz do it."

* * *

The dreaded Colditz castle—Schloss Colditz—was rather pretty all decked out in a frosting of newly fallen snow highlighted by the spotlights shining up the imposing walls. Gads, Hogan thought, leaning forward to see better through the windshield. Pretty… and ominous. And really, really, really hard to get out of.

"Fifty days," Klink said as the car drove into the first courtyard.

"Huh?" Hogan quelled the churn of his stomach caused by the sight of the castle as he turned to Klink.

"Remaining days of your sentence in solitary, for those 'escape attempts'—fifty days," Klink said. "Then a return to Stalag 13."

"Your word?" Hogan asked.

"My word," Klink said.

* * *

**Christmas Eve, 1944**

Klink was right, Hogan considered as he leaned against the bars of the window in the solitary confinement cell. It had a great view. A great view with a three hundred foot sheer drop to the rocks below the narrow window.

Hogan let out long sigh and rested his head on the crossbar securing the window. Ten days here. Not as bad as those ten days Klink had kept him totally isolated in Stalag 13's cooler by several measures of comfort, but bad enough. Here a British officer brought him his meals and would always chat for as long as the guards allowed. They had a radio (of course!) and so had fairly good news of the war's progress. Or lack thereof.

Hogan had been wrong.

Rudy was involved in a mission behind the lines with English-speaking Germans deceiving the American forces, true. But it wasn't a covert mission of sabotage or intelligence. It was the spearhead of an all-out offensive, with SS Panzer General Stromberger's tanks-moved past any more risk of avalanche-leading the charge.

The war had turned a completely new way. A bad way. And it most assuredly would not be over by Christmas.

A churchbell chimed somewhere far below. Must be midnight, Hogan thought. Christmas. From elsewhere within the castle he heard voices, English voices, began a very old song. A German song. He wondered if they realized that as they sang in English of heavenly peace. Then the German guards picked up the tune, singing along in their own language. It was a moment of peace and harmony, Hogan thought, and he couldn't bring himself to join in.

Then the distant wail of an air raid siren drowned out both the voices and the churchbell. All is calm, all is bright… Instead of celebrating the promise of peace, Hogan spent Christmas watching the Leipzig-Dresden railroad get plastered. He supposed it was a gift of sorts.

* * *

**Mid to Late February 1945**

"You said fifty days!" Hogan complained as the guards led him into the outer courtyard toward Klink's car. Truth to tell, he'd given up on Klink ever returning. Yet here he was, monocle and all, standing there watching Hogan with a supremely sour expression on his face. Klink was alone. No guards with him.

Greeting Hogan with a scowl, Klink countered, "That was before you decided to add to your sentence by attempting an escape from here."

Hogan gave the castle a long look as he got in the front seat of the car. At the same time Klink gave Hogan a similar long look, then put the car in gear and drove out of the gates. As the car eased slowly down the snowy road from the castle into the small town at its base, Hogan said, "I was trying to _subtract_ from that sentence, not add to it. Turns out that escaping business is harder than it looks."

Klink gave him a sideways glance. "How far did you get?"

"About to here," Hogan said as they reached the edge of the town. He twisted to give Klink a wry look. "I didn't know there was an SS company stationed here." He didn't mention that escaping had been the secondary purpose of his little outing from Schloss Colditz. The primary purpose—passing on information gleaned from bribed guards about anti-aircraft emplacements along the Leipzig-Dresden railroad line—had been accomplished without incident.

Out of the town on the road that led toward Leipzig they turned. The road was nearly empty of vehicles. No one, Hogan knew, had any gasoline left. Klink had either found some new black-market connections, or he was seriously stretching the camp's resources for this trip.

"So…" Hogan stretched out the word. "How come you came back for me?"

Another flick of a glance. "I gave my word." There was a long pause before Klink added, "I had rather expected I wouldn't have to, that it would all be over by now."

"Didn't we all," Hogan muttered. He turned and watched the wintry countryside pass by out the car window. Occasionally they passed a cluster of refugees trudging along the side of the road. Some looked shell-shocked. Some looked numb. All looked weary and half-starved.

"This country has changed," Hogan murmured distantly. Without thinking about it, he twisted his hands against the chain holding them together, running a finger along the inside of the cuffs where the metal chafed his wrists.

Klink glanced at him again, his expression tight and grim. "The refugees are fleeing ahead of the Russian advance from the east. Strange," he added with a bitterness in his tone, "there are no refugees fleeing ahead of the American and British advances."

"Not strange," Hogan murmured in return.

After they got through Leipzig—both tense and silent as they wove down bomb-damaged streets—Klink dug into his pocket and handed Hogan the key to the handcuffs. "Fasten them again if we run into any checkpoints," he said.

"Aren't you afraid I'll try to escape?" Hogan asked, as he awkwardly worked the key into the locks.

"I'm more afraid you won't," Klink answered frankly.

* * *

The drive was mostly silent, with Klink clutching the steering wheel tightly. They passed the ruins of what might have been a town, or a factory—it was hard to tell. Refugees huddled in the lee of the broken walls around small fires.

Hogan turned away to stare again out the windshield at the road ahead. "Give me five years and you will not recognize Germany again," he whispered the quote.

Klink gave him a dark sideways look but said nothing.

"I remember when those posters were plastered all over Berlin," Hogan commented. The changes in two and a half months time had him in shock. This was a nation in its death throes, and it showed. "Rudy kept pointing them out. 'Today Germany, tomorrow'," he started another Hitler quote then shifted into a quotation from another German of an entirely different sort. "Tomorrow… tomorrow Berlin, flat as a pancake." He gave a strained laugh.

Finally Klink spoke. "Rudy? Major Ritter?"

"Uh huh. Evil Nazi son of a bitch," Hogan described, using some of the milder terms he thought.

After another long pause while Klink negotiated the road slowly. "He's a relative of yours, isn't he?"

"I thought you'd figured that out," Hogan said dully. He added, "Cousin."

"Yes," Klink said. "The reason you speak German like a native and he speaks English like an American. And the reason you hate him more than you hate most other Nazis." He gave Hogan an appraising glance. "Ironic. You firmly on one side of the fence, and he as resolutely on the other."

"And you still straddling the middle?" Hogan questioned.

"Mmm." Klink made the sound noncommittally.

"Eventually that'll cut you in half."

* * *

"Surprised does not began to say it, sir," Sergeant Kinchloe told Colonel Hogan when they first had a private moment, "how we reacted when we heard the coded message over the BBC congratulating you on a successful assignment. Locked up in solitary at Colditz yet you managed to find a way to carry out a mission."

Hogan chuckled. They walked along the perimeter of the fence, with Hogan enjoying the sense of openness as Kinchloe briefed him on the situation back at Stalag 13. "I was far from alone in pulling it off," he explained. "The Krauts there only have you do twenty-seven days in a row in solitary. So they let me out a couple times for a few days into the main part of the castle. The Senior British and American officers knew I was Papa Bear so they cooperated fully. I was listening to the BBC with them on their radio, and what do I hear but a coded message aimed right at me…"

"Yeah," Kinchloe cut in. "We heard those messages too. We informed London where you were, so I suppose they figured you might hear it and take action." He gave Hogan a grin. "No vacations for you, sir."

"Not if London has its way," Hogan said, "So I did hear the messages. Eventually. They wanted information on ack-ack in the area I was in, between Leipzig and Dresden, so…" He shrugged. "The boys pumped their tame guards for the information. I went out, met with the contact where London's message said, and passed on the information. Then started to make tracks out of town." He shook his head with a wry smile. "And promptly got caught."

"You know," Kinchloe allowed thoughtfully, "for men who've been in the escape business as long we have, we really don't have much practical experience in doing it."

Hogan laughed. "That is so very true. I tell you, Kinchloe… I always thought what we'd done here was pretty remarkable, but what they've achieved at Colditz under much tougher conditions was amazing. With no Klink and no Schultz." In a tone of awe, he went on, "They have a glider they're building in the attic. The roof is rigged to swing up out of the way." He gave Kinchloe a teasing look. "And you thought my stunt with the hot air balloon was nuts."

Kinchloe frowned. "Is that how you got out? For pete's sake, Colonel, a glider?"

"Hardly," Hogan said with a laugh. "Nothing so dramatic. I used the oldest trick in the book. Put on a German uniform, used forged papers, and walked out the main gate. None of the guards knew I spoke German, and most of them wouldn't recognize me because I'd been in solitary most of the time, so I just walked right out under their noses."

"When we heard the congratulatory message from London on the BBC, sir," Kinchloe said, "that really perked up everyone here."

Hogan chuckled. "Well, I didn't hear it. I was back in a solitary confinement cell. As I was on my way out of the town I made an abrupt turn-around to avoid an SS guard post and ran smack dab into the Colditz security officer. He _did_ recognize me. Marched me straight back to the guardhouse."

Stopping in their walk of the camp perimeter, Hogan stretched and studied the sunset over the treetops. The things he had been able to accomplish seemed to pale in comparison to those he hadn't. Rudy, with the English-speaking Germans sent to confuse the Americans before the Battle of the Bulge offensive began. And General Stomberger of the 1st SS Panzer Division… Hogan should have killed him even if he had to hit him with a snow shovel. Sometimes Hogan wondered if he'd really ever accomplished anything.

Anything he could be proud of.

Air raid sirens sounded and smoke rose in a thick column into the air over the treetops.

"Did you see the raid?" Kinchloe asked quietly. "The raid from the information you sent? Dresden?"

Hogan looked at him a moment. "We were about fifty miles away," he said hollowly. "But I saw the planes. Hundreds of them. Day and night for days." He gave a shuddering sigh.

* * *

Klink heard a car pull up in front of his office. He cocked his head to listen. A car door slammed. Crossing to his window, he looked out. Near Barracks Two he saw Colonel Hogan straighten to alert.

Uh, oh.

Rushing to the office door, Klink marched through the outer office and flung open the outside door. He stepped onto the porch to see a fearful sight—the black of an SS uniform. He caught a glimpse of the insignia—a major. The major had his pistol raised. Oh, mein Gott! Hochstetter. And he was about to shoot Hogan.

No. Klink hurried down the steps. Not Hochstetter. It was Major Ritter. And he was about to shoot Hogan. Klink sped up. What's more he was about to shoot Hogan in self-defense. Two guards held Hogan back. A third—Hogan's personal nemesis—had his submachine gun barrel pressed hard into the Colonel's chest. Hogan seemed to notice none of them, so fixed was he on Ritter.

"What's going on here?" Klink demanded as he hurried toward them. "What is this?"

Ritter took his eyes off Hogan to glance at Klink. "Nothing, Herr Kommandant," he said coldly. He turned back to Hogan, glaring at him. "Just delivering a message." He turned and walked back to his car. He now had, Klink noticed, a very pronounced limp.

The guards didn't lessen their grip on Hogan until Ritter's car cleared the gate.

"What was that?" Klink demanded. "What did he say?"

Hogan didn't answer. He just turned and walked away.

* * *

Hogan stood near the wire, arms folded across his chest, facing southeast. A rumble like thunder reverberated in steady thuds punctuated by crackles and snaps of weapons fire. Machine guns. Ack-ack batteries, but only a few. Over it all the steady drone of aircraft engines. Bombers.

Two Messerschmitts buzzed low over the camp, heading rapidly east toward the fight. Too little, too late, Hogan thought as he watched them disappear over the treeline. It made him suddenly, unaccountably, sad. Those two pilots—brave boys, no matter their allegiance—likely wouldn't live to see another sunrise. Such a waste.

Glancing only briefly toward him as Kommandant Klink strode up, Hogan turned back to his contemplation of the horizon as Klink stepped up beside him.

"What is it?" Klink asked.

"They're hitting Schweinfurt again," Hogan said.

Klink held his hand up in front of himself, palm toward the southeast. "Mein Gott," he whispered. "Thirty kilometers away and you can feel the heat of it from here."

"Yeah," Hogan said dully. "Fire bombing."

Both men stared southeast a long time, feeling the heat, hearing the distant rumble, imagining what it was like close up, and dreading to imagine it at the same time.

After a long time, as the drone of airplane engines retreated and the guns fell still, Klink said, "I suppose you heard about Dresden."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah."

"The city completely destroyed in a firestorm. It was full of refugees. They're saying tens of thousands, maybe more than a hundred thousand, dead," Klink said.

"A terrible thing," Hogan commented distantly. Empty words. Mere formality.

Klink didn't let it go. "There are some saying Churchill destroyed Dresden as revenge for Coventry. Is that true?"

Turning his full attention to Klink for the first time, Hogan simply said. "I don't know. Maybe. Coventry was bad."

"Yes," Klink said. "You were there, weren't you? Fighter cover. It's a difficult thing, to witness a horrible thing and not be able to do anything about it? Or to have done what you could and still have it be too little? Isn't it?"

Hogan gave Klink a somewhat dark, yet understanding smile. "It is. And you know something of that, too, don't you?" A flash of understanding passed between them as both remembered a certain violinmaker.

Facing the heat, again, both men stood silent a moment. Then Klink asked, "Does it help? The revenge?"

With a bitter chuckle, Hogan said, "I can safely say that it does not." Shaking himself, Hogan turned to leave. He paused, not sure what compelled him to add, "Want to hear something really ironic, Kommandant?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on, "My dad lost an aunt in Coventry. Killed by one of the bombs from one of the bombers I couldn't stop from getting through." Another bitter chuckle, this one even darker. "And my mom lost a brother in Dresden. Killed by one of the bombs from one of the bombers I _helped_ get through."

On Klink's open-mouthed stare, Hogan saluted briefly and strode rapidly away.

* * *

**Late March 1945**

"Colonel, please," Kinchloe implored as Hogan put another smear of black on his face. "Let one of the others go."

Hogan glanced toward him. "The meeting is with Tiger," he said as though it were explanation enough.

"Sir…" Kinchloe stretched out the word, loading it with concern. "That is exactly why one of the others should go."

* * *

No, Hogan realized when he saw her face. It wasn't just desperate passion in time of war. It was more. It was everything. She was everything.

"Tiger," he whispered.

"Colonel," she whispered back, her voice husky.

"Marie."

A tiny smile played across her lips. "Robert."

* * *

"I really need to get going," Hogan said but made no effort to move. For a time, in this room, in this bed, there was peace. Peace, and fulfillment, and love… all things missing from his world—from the entire world—these past years.

Her arms pulled him closer again. "A little while longer," Tiger whispered.

* * *

"All right," Hogan said briskly, straightening his clothes. "I'll pass that information on to London. And you—" He emphasized the order by taking her by the shoulders and staring hard into her eyes. "—you be careful. It's only a little while longer. Don't take any foolish chances now."

Tiger chuckled. "I might say the same to you, Colonel."

She melted against him. Her lips, hot and moist, met his. He pulled her hard against him.

Inside the room, time stood still.

Outside, it did not.

It was the nightmare scenario.

For just a split second when the door burst in, Hogan could have chosen immediate death for them both. It was the logical choice. It was the correct choice. But his eyes met Tiger's and he knew neither one of them was ready for the final surrender, the final defeat. While they lived there was yet a chance... the irrational, eternal hope, no matter how objectively impossible that hope may be. The opportunity passed in an instant and the Gestapo agents flooding into the room seized each of them tightly.

The trap closed and their fate was no longer their own.

As his hands were forced behind his back and cuffs clamped tightly in place, Hogan remained fixed on Tiger. She didn't struggle between the two Gestapo agents who held her. She ignored them entirely, focusing wholly on Hogan. He read the fear in her eyes, but it was overshadowed by a deep sorrow for the life and future that was not to be. Her lips formed 'au revoir' before the agents yanked her away, dragging her into the bedroom.

Hogan dreaded nothing more than the moment he and Tiger should meet again.

The door slammed closed behind them. Thuds, the sounds of struggle, and a high-pitched squeal came to Hogan. He tried to wrest himself away from the agents holding him but their grip was firm; their expressions mocking and cold. Hogan didn't know what was taking place in that room, but he knew what they intended him to think was taking place.

Something was odd. The agents hadn't said a word. They hadn't so much as glanced at the damning documents Tiger had brought to pass to him. They'd burst in as though they knew what they'd find and were waiting for…

The sharp tromp of hobnailed boots echoed on stairs, nearing. The guards tightened their grip. Hogan looked toward the door, steadying himself for whatever-or whoever-was coming.

Hogan went cold.

Hochstetter.

The smile was icy. The glitter in the eyes victorious. The stance promised death in slow increments.

Hochstetter.

A slow, dark smile began to trace its way across Hogan's lips. The challenge of the old rivalry, now to be played without pretense, rose in him. Whatever else, no matter what, Hogan would _not_ let this little Arschloch get the better of him.

"Hogan..." The name emerged as a hiss from Hochstetter's lips. He made a gesture to the two guards. They forced Hogan down to his knees. Hochstetter stepped up close.

Glaring up, Hogan met his eyes without blinking. "Can't stand to look up at your betters, Major?"

Hochstetter's hand raised in a flash for the blow. Despite himself, Hogan cringed, unable to dodge or pull away from the grip holding him. Oh, that big ring Hochstetter wore was gonna hurt. But, the blow didn't come. Instead Hochstetter stepped close. His gloved hand caressed Hogan's face. It was worse, in a way, than being struck.

"At last," Hochstetter murmured. "At last I have you. No protection of the Luftwaffe coddling its prisoners to stand between us. I have you for what you really are. A spy. A saboteur. And before you die—_slowly_—you will tell me everything. And give me everyone."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Major," Hogan said. He had to try it, for form's sake if nothing else. "I'm just an escaped POW."

Hochstetter laughed. It was not a humorous sound. He picked up the documents. "With a woman known to be an Underground leader and documents proving your complicity. Clever of you to have Captain Schafstein's photographs removed from his records." _Huh? Who? How?_ "But you only delayed me. Again. No, my dear Hogan. Now, at long last, we will have that long anticipated opportunity to have an extended talk. And..." Hochstetter stepped even closer. He ran a gloved finger down Hogan's jaw line. Hogan fought an urge to shudder. "...I do hope, my dear Colonel Hogan, that you will Not. Talk. Too. Soon."

Hogan breathed heavily and broke the defiant stare. He crumpled a bit, letting his—_quite_ _genuine_—fear show through. "You got me," he muttered. It wasn't hard to let his voice crack a bit. "But just me." He looked up pleadingly. "_Just me_."

"And the woman..." Hochstetter began, then fell headlong into Hogan's meaning. "Ah..." Hochstetter said triumphantly. "Your men at Stalag 13. I'll go to that moron Klink at once to take custody of them. He won't be able to refuse me this time. Klink..."

"Not Klink," Hogan whispered, as though the name burst from him unwillingly.

Hochstetter's eyes narrowed. "Protecting Klink..." He studied Hogan closely. Hogan held his breath. Then a burst of profanity spewed from Hochstetter. "Klink is in on it. Isn't he?"

"No," Hogan denied rapidly. "No. No, he's not. He's just a dupe."

"Yes." Hochstetter turned to rapidly pace the room. "Of course. There's no other way you could have pulled it off all these years. Klink. That traitor. I'll have his head!" Spinning, Hochstetter turned to the agents holding Hogan. "Take him to Berlin immediately," he snapped. "And the woman, when you're through with her." Hogan winced. "I shall be along shortly. As soon as I've gone to Stalag 13 and arrested your accomplice."

Hochstetter glowered victoriously at Hogan. Hogan dropped his eyes, miserably beaten. Hochstetter's smile broadened. He turned and the boots again echoed on the stairs, retreating into the night.

_Sorry Klink, _Hogan thought. _Time to get off that fence. Just, please, pick the right side._

Yanked to his feet, Hogan was hustled out of the room and down to a waiting car. Seated between two guards, with more in the front seat, they started down the long road to Berlin. Hogan swallowed. A sweep of remembered feeling flashed over him, as vivid as though it was happening all over again.

Helpless.

Worse... He'd handed the others over to the Gestapo, too. Not just himself.

Helplessness.

Maybe... Squeezing his eyes closed, he sent upwards a wordless plea that his plan might work. It depended on his boys being up and alert to Hochstetter's arrival, and taking bold action without hesitation. But, more, it depended on Klink. It depended on Klink's instinct for self-survival, and it depended on his ultimate choice of where to stand.

To be continued... one chapter to go


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

**March 25, 1945**

_Zerstörung-Räumung…_

Destroy. Evacuate. Klink had been advised by Berlin to be prepared for both. Destroy all the camp documents and evacuate the camp if it appeared the Allies were near. Those were the orders. They had, Hogan had estimated, ten days. Maybe two weeks. Then the Allies would be here. It should be easy at this point, Klink considered. Just wait for the inevitable. But no. Every inch of ground was being fought for. They wouldn't give up and they couldn't surrender. It seemed so foolish, to die now, when the end was so near. But he also understood it. He'd served in his country's military most of his life. Klink fingered the Iron Cross pinned to his uniform. No swastikas. It was from the last war—the one that was supposed to end all wars. A remembrance of how it felt then, to lose, swept over him. He felt that again now. Deep down he resented these armies marching across his country, destroying it from both ground and air. It made him want to fight them, but only almost as much as it made him want it just to be over.

Zerstörung… Klink pulled a chair over by the stove in his office and opened a fat file folder. Destroying some documents was an order he had no problem obeying. The second set of camp accounting ledgers had already gone into the stove. He regretted that slightly. They did show an artistic manipulation of Stalag 13's accounts. The file he opened now was one best destroyed under any and all circumstances. Hogan's file. The big one. The one Klink had added to over the years.

Opening the door of the stove, Klink lifted a crumpled bar napkin from the top of the file. He hesitated, then shoved the napkin in his pocket, returning his attention to the folder. One by one he fed the pages into the flames.

The telephone ringing in the outer office startled Klink. Several pages slid to the floor. A moment later the office door opened and Schultz, pale and frightened, peered in.

"Herr Kommandant," Schultz almost stuttered. "Major Hochstetter is at the main gate. He demands to see you. I… I… I think it's about Colonel Hogan."

"Donnerwetter," Klink whispered. There existed no scenario in which this could be good. A question he had never before asked his sergeant of the guard demanded now to be asked. "Is… Is Hogan here?"

A nervous shake of the head told Klink all. "What do we do?" Schultz asked plaintively.

This was it, wasn't it? Klink realized with a curious sense of detachment. This was the moment Hogan had told him of when he would have to choose and commit to one or the other. Hochstetter or Hogan? Fellow countryman or conniving enemy? Time took on the quality of a series of frozen images Klink saw as if in snapshots. The papers about Hogan fallen from the folder scattered across the floor. The open stove door, the flames still high from burning papers. The helmet on his desk representing another time, a more honorable world that, in reality, was every bit as vicious as this one. His lips pressed together as he took in the photograph of the Führer, crooked and undusted on the wall. Then a group photograph with Klink, himself, in it as a proud young officer. Standing beside him… Hans Kronman.

Always he skittered back from the total commitment. Playing both sides of the fence, Hogan had called it. Now the final choice stood clear before him. His duty to the Fatherland. Or outright treason.

Klink's eyes flicked back and forth between the two pictures. Hans Kronman. Adolph Hitler.

The moment—in reality, a count of mere seconds—ended.

Klink moved rapidly to his desk and yanked open a drawer. Pulling out a pistol he dropped it into the pocket of his overcoat hanging by the door. "Schultz," Klink snapped. "Tell the gate to let Hochstetter in. You, get over to Barracks Two and tell Hogan's men to…" There was a pause as Klink pulled the photograph of Hitler away from the wall and quickly reconnected the wires to the microphone. "…to listen in."

Schultz's eyes went wide but he only said, "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," and snapped off a salute. A salute, Klink noted, showing obvious and honest respect.

* * *

"Ah, Major Hochstetter, how good to see you!" Klink's voice came with artificial enthusiasm over the coffeepot speaker. Kinchloe, LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk all leaned closer to catch every word.

"Herr Kommandant," came the hissing voice accompanied by the distinctive clack of machine gun bolts being drawn. "The game is over."

"What's this?" Klink's voice took on an edge of terror.

"The game is over, Klink," again came Hochstetter's voice laden with smarmy confidence. "I have your cohort and now I have you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Klink protested.

"Your Colonel Hogan," Hochstetter said. "I have him now. Caught him in town with a known Underground agent and secret information. Proof he's the spy I always knew he was. He's being taken to Berlin right now." Hogan's men stirred, exchanging dark looks at that. "But," they heard Hochstetter punctuate that, "before that he gave up everything, and everyone. His men here, and you, Klink. Your complicity."

"My God," Newkirk murmured. "The colonel gave us up. And Klink?"

"What Hochstetter must have done to him…" LeBeau put in, letting the horrified thought hang.

"Or to Tiger," Carter added. Murmurs of agreement.

Kinchloe shook his head. "The colonel didn't break," he said stoutly. He glanced around at them all. "At least not yet."

"Then what?"

"Colonel Hogan made a bet. Double or nothing… on Klink," Kinchloe said. "Now we see if he bet right. Come on, we gotta get ready."

* * *

Klink protested his innocence all the way to the barracks door as he was shoved along, stalling and reluctant, by Hochstetter's two SS goons. Hochstetter, pistol drawn, threw open the barracks' door.

"Ah, ha!" he burst out, stepping in triumphantly.

Klink, a step behind, instantly recognized the contrived tableau of positions on the part of the prisoners in the barracks. Hochstetter did not, so fixated was he by the sight toward the left. The bunk rose, a ladder tilted down. LeBeau was caught, frozen, with one foot over the railing, about to descend into a gaping hole in the floor.

"I knew it," Hochstetter murmured in a tone of absolute victory. "I knew it all along."

He missed the quiet movements behind him. Too confident. Klink pulled out the pistol he'd hidden in his pocket as the SS guards behind him were secured. He pointed the pistol at Hochstetter, his finger easing onto the trigger.

"Take his gun," Sergeant Kinchloe snapped. Klink glanced. Kinchloe had a gun, too, an American issue semi-automatic in hand. It pointed, without commitment, somewhere between Hochstetter and Klink.

"Which one?" Carter demanded in an anguished voice.

"Hochstetter!" Kinchloe shouted, as if they were idiots.

Before it all could really register on Hochstetter, Klink saw, he was disarmed and Corporal Newkirk had him in a tight grip with a very sharp-looking knife at his throat. A trickle of blood ran down Hochstetter's neck. His eyes went wide and wild.

"What about Klink?" Klink only half-heard as he stared. He felt numb. Dizzy. In shock. Then he realized he still held a pistol, raised, in a room full of armed men who did not wear the same uniform he did.

"Kommandant." Kinchloe's voice came softly beside him. "Please put the gun down, sir."

Able to manage only a nod, Klink slowly lowered his arm. The tension in the room lessened. The weapons on Klink eased back, but not entirely, from full readiness. Klink's eyes darted around the room. Two prisoners had hold of each of the SS guards. Schultz—_Schultz!_—had his rifle (loaded?) pressed into the temple of one of the SS men.

Hochstetter glared, then grunted as Newkirk's knife pressed harder into his throat.

Klink took a breath. Had he been holding it? Feeling the eyes, and guns, of Hogan's men on him, he took a shaky step toward the open bunk. Then another. The prisoners seemed all to be holding their breaths, too, as the Kommandant of Stalag 13, toughest, most escape-proof prison camp in all of Germany, stared down into the massive tunnel excavation beneath the floor.

He stared for a long time, then looked up. His eyes darted around the room—LeBeau (fierce), Carter (worried), Newkirk (dangerous), Hochstetter (shudder—evil), and on to Kinchloe who watched Klink with a questioning expression.

Klink swallowed, glanced back at the hole, then met Kinchloe's eyes steadily.

"Where's the elevator?"

* * *

Any opening. Any opening. Any opening, Hogan told himself over and over. Even if it looks like certain death, take any opening. No matter how many times he told himself that, he knew he couldn't quite commit just yet to the final, ultimate defeat. What had it been like for Morrison, he wondered as the car drove through the night toward Berlin. What had been his moment of decision when he took his own life rather than let himself be captured?

Any opening. Any opening. Any opening, Hogan repeated to himself, trying to convince himself. He held onto no delusions about escaping, about pulling off the big, daring escape, rescuing Tiger and living happily ever after. He was being taken to his death. The only question remained whether it came quickly through his own choice. Or slowly in Hochstetter's own time.

Tiger… Hogan tried not to think of Tiger. He couldn't help it. The feel of her, the touch, the sense of the two of them twined together had spoken of so much promise for the future. Now their future spoke only of an impending nightmare. He knew how it would be when next he and Tiger met. Hochstetter would be there to use one against the other in the most horrifying ways possible. Hogan swallowed down a half-panicked laugh, earning a glare and an elbow jab from one of his guards.

Personal resolve as to how he'd hold out to the end dwindled in the face of reality. Even knowing full well any promises made were lies, he'd crack for the merest shred of hope it would save Tiger. No, he wouldn't. She'd never forgive him. But... no one holds out forever. Any opening. Any opening...

No. 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. The car ground to a halt.

Any opening. Even if it's certain death. _Especially_ if it's certain death.

Air raid sirens sounded. The city plunged into darkness as Hogan was led up the steps.

* * *

The opening came when he was taken to a small room to be strip-searched by two of Hochstetter's goons.

Hogan felt the rumble of the bombers through the concrete floor. He heard—felt, sensed—their altitude, the approach vector. In his mind he placed the image of the planes over a map of the city. One of the goons grabbed the chain of the cuffs holding his hands behind his back. The other aimed a gun his way with disinterested arrogance. The planes were low. Near. Final approach?

A whistling sound. Then dozens. Distant. Nearing. The guards glanced up. Then back to their prisoner. The building trembled from an explosion not far away. Then another. Another. Carpet bombing, Hogan realized. _Come closer,_ he sent a silent plea upwards. His own comrades were mere thousands of feet away above him. They might as well be on the moon. _Come closer,_ he prayed again. _Drop your load right on this godforsaken building._

One of the handcuff locks clicked. The building rocked.

Any opening.

Hogan took it.

Yanking his arm free, he continued the move in a swing around to connect with the goon's jaw. Hogan threw himself at the other guard as he fired. The shot went wild. Snatching his gun, Hogan fired into the guard he'd hit. Turned to the other. Aimed. For a split-second, Hogan saw the man's eyes widen. Fear. Pleading. Then hatred. Contempt. Hogan shot him squarely between those eyes.

Out of the room. Down the corridor. No. 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Straße rocked and shuddered from the bombing.

Round a corner. No, the other way.

Hogan skidded to a halt.

The barrel of a pistol held by a black-gloved hand stopped him. He looked up beyond the gun to the face above it.

"Goldilocks!" he exclaimed, surprised. _I'll be damned,_ he thought. Lisel. No shotgun this time, but just as deadly an expression on that lovely face. Moonlight and edelweiss. Bombs and death.

"You!" she said after a moment. "I recognize you." The lovely features went hard.

"That outfit does not do you justice," he told Lisel, eyeing her still-shapely figure in the Gestapo/SS uniform, as he edged inch by inch backwards toward the corridor junction. Did she room with that Gestapo cow he'd once kissed? What a pair. The stuff of nightmares.

"I should have shot you back then," she said. "It would have done good service to the Fatherland. But Papa was soft."

"Not so soft, sweetie," Hogan told her darkly. "Your mamma and papa have been working for the Underground all this time. Helping shot down fliers escape. Right under your nasty little Nazi nose." The hand with the pistol wavered. "You won't shoot." He said it as an order, then quickly turned to dive down the corridor.

Hogan had been right. As the rough concrete pressed into his cheek, he decided he'd been right all along about the inadvisability of getting shot in the back by a woman. It hurt. It burned. Definitely a thing to be avoided.

Then a hobnailed boot squeezed down on his neck. As other boots rushed toward him, Hogan's world went dark.

* * *

Hogan sat hunched up on the cold concrete floor. It was the only way he could sit. The chains binding his wrists and ankles, tethered to a ringbolt in the floor, allowed him little movement. They'd threatened to chain him to the floor a long time ago, he recalled. It took them 'til now to do it.

Trying to stretch, he stopped and winced. The floor was cold but he felt hot. It wasn't a serious wound, they'd told him. Well, they hadn't actually _told_ him. These members of the Master Race didn't address their prisoner except to describe, in detail, how he'd pay for killing two of their own. No, they'd been talking over and around him. Small caliber bullet went clean through. Nicked a rib, maybe. Not fatal. More's the pity. Hogan was surprised they patched him up. Then he wasn't surprised. Hochstetter wanted him alive.

Rescue... no matter how logically impossible, the ridiculous hope kept surfacing to taunt him. What had Hochstetter said about Captain Schafstein's photos disappearing from his file? Coincidence? Luck? Or a mysterious someone working for him behind the scenes? He'd have said Morrison, acting as Major Teppel, was the most likely bet to pull off something like that, but Morrison was long dead. Burkhalter?

A laugh at the absurdity burst from Hogan leading to coughing and spasms of pain. He shifted miserably, pulling against the chains. This was nothing; nothing compared to what was to come. He swallowed. Throat dry. Thirsty. There was a water pail near the door. He couldn't reach it. A full day and probably the better part of another night chained here yet still Hochstetter hadn't come. Was he working on Tiger first?

Burkhalter was a conundrum, had been from the start. The general's little pig eyes glaring at him certainly never gave a hint of sympathy to Hogan. And yet the bloated nimrod kept dropping opportunities into Hogan's lap. Nimrod? Yeah, might as well call the master manipulator of Hogan's whole absurd espionage career nothing but a nimrod given the way it looked likely to end. And what about Klink? What had happened there? Had Klink caved in when he had to make that big choice? When Klink last spotted danger he'd promptly hauled Hogan off to Colditz to sidestep any risk to himself. Had the self-admitted cringing bootlicker crawled to Hochstetter's side of the fence? Or had Klink simply been outmatched? With _Schultz_ as his backup? Against the Gestapo and the SS? What had Hogan been thinking when he sicced Hochstetter on Klink? What was it Klink said about the price of Hogan's life?

What about his men? Were any of them still alive?

Closing his eyes, Hogan tried to pray, scheme, anything useful. Instead he remembered… he remembered that man so long ago begging Hogan to talk so he could live. Then just begging to die. Would he beg for death, Hogan wondered, before it was over?

A key scraped in the door lock.

Hogan looked up, trying to steady himself, to gather strength. Hochstetter must be here.

* * *

Major Hochstetter's face was pale and taut. He met Hogan's eyes with utterly black hatred as Hogan was led shuffling, with chains rattling, toward him.

Hogan's breath caught and he strove not to react. My God… Hochstetter wasn't alone. Klink and Schultz stood in the shadows behind him, both appearing on the ragged edge of panic. So much for that shed of hope. Hochstetter had caught them, or they'd caved in, Hogan realized dully. And who was that standing so close up against Hochstetter. He spotted the insignia. A general. A high-ranking audience for the torture and execution, Hogan thought.

"The prisoner is to be turned back over to Colonel Klink. Take him to the car," the general ordered harshly. Hogan's head snapped up. He struggled not to react more. He knew that voice. He knew that coarse, yet aristocratic, Prussian accent. A flicker of hope built in him.

General Kinchmeier!

Hogan peered through the gloom in the corridor. The air raid had interrupted power, left the building dim. A black SS general's uniform covered Kinchloe's tall frame. Blond hair (blond!) peeked out beneath the rakishly tilted hat. His face… the so very not-German features were pulled into distortion by a convincing burn scar covering half his face. Also Kinchloe's distinctly not-Aryan complexion was concealed beneath what appeared to be a thick layer of makeup in—if he wasn't mistaken—Fräulein Hilda's shade.

Holding his breath as more orders were snapped out, with Hochstetter's growled consent, Hogan was soon being led back outside into the night toward Klink's waiting staff car, Schultz on one side, Klink on the other. Schultz helped Hogan, tangling in the chains, into the back seat, then got in front behind the steering wheel. Klink stood on the other side of the car, holding both doors open. Klink seemed to be counting aloud.

After an eternity, but before Klink reached sixty in his count, Hochstetter, followed very closely by Kinchloe, descended the steps. Hochstetter was sandwiched into the back between Hogan and Klink. As Klink closed his door, he pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Hochstetter.

Kinchloe got in front, slammed the door and ordered, "Go!"

"Wait!" Hogan countered. Schultz hesitated. Kinchloe peered back at Hogan. "We have to get Tiger."

"She's not here, sir," Kinchloe said sharply. The truth? Then he repeated, "Go." Schultz went.

"Kinch…" Hogan began.

"She isn't here, sir," Kinchloe repeated firmly. More gently, he added, "The Underground is on it, Colonel. Try not to worry."

Hogan tried and failed. He looked over at Klink, who watched Hochstetter, who glared impotent death at Hogan. Studying him, Hogan realized Hochstetter had never unclasped his black-gloved hands from in front of him. And he sat oddly. Oh… his hands were bound behind his back under the coat. Fake arms in the coat sleeves in front. Hogan glanced at Kinchloe. "I had Newkirk's pencil sharpener jabbed in his back the entire time," Kinchloe said. He looked coldly at Hochstetter. "And he knew I'd be more than happy to gut him at any time. Turns out he's not so brave when it's his life on the line."

A stream of curses and threats burst from Hochstetter.

"Stop here," Klink snapped—his first words spoken. Klink opened his door, pulling Hochstetter behind him into the night, into the ruins of a bombed out building.

"You're letting him go?" Hogan asked of Kinchloe.

Then a single shot punctuated the night. No one said anything as Klink climbed back into the car. He put his pistol back into the holster at his belt. His hand was steady, Hogan noticed.

They stopped another block later to let Klink out to puke.

* * *

Weaving their way through the shattered city, Klink unlocked the chains binding Hogan without a word, letting them fall with a clatter to the floor of the car. Then he reached into his pocket and handed a crumpled napkin to Hogan.

Unfolding and smoothing it, Hogan tilted it to catch a bit of light from outside. "Hmm…" Hogan studied Klink's impassive face. He had dated it—March 26, 1945. "Thank you, sir," Hogan said softly. Klink glanced toward Hogan and nodded.

* * *

"You said," Klink broke the long silence as they made their way out of Berlin, "that you'd tell me everything."

Hogan chuckled slightly, looking at 'General Kinchmeier' in the front seat. "I have a hunch you know pretty much everything there is to know at this point, sir."

"Mmm…" He stared at Hogan. "You lied about the elevator," he said accusingly. "The helicopter too, I imagine."

Hogan grinned.

Klink sighed. "All right, how about the one thing none of the best interrogators or researchers in Germany ever got out of you… Cleveland, Indianapolis, Bridgeport… Where were you born?"

Hogan let out a soft snort and looked out the window a moment at the ruins of Berlin. "About five blocks from here, sir," he said.

Klink and Kinchloe both gaped at him. Schultz almost ran off the road. Hogan winced and clutched his side as the car swerved and bounced over some rubble.

"What?" "Huh?" "How?"

Klink managed to get coherent speech out first. "You mean you are… that is to say, you're a citizen of Ger…"

"No," Hogan cut in. "Hell no. Not now. Not then. Not ever."

"You needn't sound so offended," Klink huffed, then caught the look Hogan gave him. "Well, maybe you need to," he allowed.

"No, sir," Hogan said. "American citizen, born, bred, and raised."

"How?"

"U.S. Embassy. U.S. territory right here. Embassy staff… Mom and Dad met here. Got married here. Mom wanted to get to know her half-brother here so she took a job as a secretary at the Embassy. Dad was in the army assigned to… uh… well, I could tell you but it would be a shame to have to kill you at this late date," Hogan said, tossing Klink a grin.

"Never mind," Klink said. "I think I can guess. The sneakiness is hereditary."

"So all of those Gestapo agents who were trying to get a pin in me—" He shook his head. "—they were looking in the wrong place."

* * *

**March 27, 1945**

They arrived back to Stalag 13 in the afternoon. Driving slowly through the gate, Schultz stopped the car in the middle of the compound… the empty compound. The gate stood open. The guard towers were empty. No guards. No prisoners.

"What happened?" Hogan demanded of Klink.

"I don't know," Klink protested. Hogan believed him. The ex-Kommandant looked and sounded stunned as he turned in a slow circle surveying his empty camp.

"Sir," Kinchloe cut in. Hogan looked where he was pointing. The periscope peeked out of the water barrel.

Then the door of Barracks Two opened. LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk slowly emerged. "Thank heavens you're okay, Colonel," Carter said.

"What happened here?" Hogan demanded of them, ignoring the greetings.

"Krauts showed up. SS. Demanded an immediate evacuation. Captain Gruber did it—a forced march out," they explained.

"We considered fighting it out," Newkirk said apologetically, "but they 'ad us outnumbered, and…"

Hogan waved a hand to stop him. He understood.

"The other fellas covered for us," Carter inserted. "Scrambled things up, messed up the counts, so we could slip away."

"They're all volunteers too," Kinchloe commented softly.

"Yeah," Hogan said. "Yeah… but, God, what a cost." He looked at his men again. "Do you know why? Why the sudden evacuation? The Allies are at least a week away."

"We're not sure, mon Colonel," LeBeau answered. "There was a rumor the Allies were coming. Now. Today."

"I just don't understand it," Hogan said, staring around the desolate camp.

The Allied tanks arrived a few hours later.

* * *

Hogan glanced over at Klink as they heard the tanks drawing near. Klink looked like he could fly away without a plane.

"Scared?" Hogan asked him quietly.

Klink's head bobbed up and down rapidly. "I'm imagining a high school senior from Wichita, Kansas pointing his pea shooter at me." He threw a frightened look at Hogan. "And I don't even know what any of that means."

Hogan examined Klink. The man had a death grip on his riding crop. "Relax, sir," Hogan told him. "I'll take care of you."

"I don't think I'll enjoy being a prisoner of war," Klink commented.

"It'll do you good," Hogan said teasingly. "Builds character."

"Hmph! It didn't build your character."

Hogan grinned. "Hey, how about a nice thirty days in the cooler for starters?"

Klink glared at him briefly, then went back to looking terrified.

* * *

The officer in charge of the task force looked as stunned as Hogan and company had been at finding Stalag 13 empty. "We're spearheading a rescue mission, Colonel," he told Hogan. "Straight in fast ahead of our main lines of advance. The unofficial rumor we're to spread is that we were sent to liberate the camp because General Patton's nephew was here and would be held as a hostage." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "The real, top secret reason is word came in Papa Bear was in danger and we were to get him out at all costs."

Hogan had to turn away.

* * *

Dozens of Thompson submachine guns in the hands of the G.I.s patrolling the camp came to ready as a car approached the gates.

"I'll bet Burkhalter," Kinchloe said to Colonel Hogan.

"No bet," Hogan answered. "For a second or two I thought I had more of a chance of General Burkhalter coming to my rescue in Berlin than General Kinchmeier. But… now? No. Klink says he hasn't been able to get a hold of Burkhalter for a week. He thinks the general is basking on a beach in Argentina by now."

Kinchloe shuddered. "There's an unpleasant mental image. So much for the Nimrod theory."

"Hard to say," Hogan said. "We'll probably never know." He studied the car as the sentries cautiously neared it. "So who's that?"

"Hogan! Darling!" The voice carried over to Colonel Hogan.

"Oh…God." Hogan did not sound pleased at the reunion. "Let her in," he called to the sentries.

Klink—with his G.I. escort—came to Hogan's side. "It's that Russian woman," he said unnecessarily.

"Hogan, darling. I've come back to you! Throw yourself into my arms and proclaim your undying love for me," Marya came out of the car in a sweep of fur and silk. The young American soldiers drew back. Hogan understood their fear.

"Uh… Marya, not that I'm not happy to see you… ulp! Ow!" The rest was cut off by the woman flung into his arms.

"Control your passion, Hogan, darling," Marya proclaimed loudly. "I have come back for marriage!"

"Um… really, Marya…" Hogan tried to push her to arms length. Klink, Kinchloe, and every other man present looked at Hogan with complete and utter sympathy, save one.

"Marya!" LeBeau's voice cut in. "You've come back for me."

"My small one," Marya beamed, then shoved Hogan away. "Poor darling Hogan. I tell you and tell you and still you hold out hope. I am not here to marry you."

"Then who?" Carter inserted innocently.

"My delicious small one, of course," Marya said, wrapping herself around LeBeau. The little Frenchman all but disappeared from view in the fur-wrapped embrace. "We shall live in Paris and make love night and day!"

"What about Russia?" Hogan asked.

"Russia." Marya expounded, "Glorious, wondrous land above all other lands. But to live there? Phaw! Dull talk of factory production and crop yields. No, my small one and I shall set Paris alight!" LeBeau glowed already.

"I wish you all happiness," Hogan said with flat sincerity.

"But you, Hogan. I bring you a gift." She turned serious, cocking her head toward her car. "In back, Colonel."

Slowly, hardly daring to hope, Hogan stepped near the car. He opened the back door and looked in. Clinging to the edge of the door, Hogan held himself up as dizziness swept over him. "Tiger," he whispered.

Battered, bruised, barely conscious, but alive, she smiled weakly up at him. "Colonel."

He tried to lift her, but couldn't, his injury causing him to gasp and hold his side.

From beside him, Klink said gently, "Let me."

As Klink carried her toward his quarters, he glanced at Tiger's face, then with a puzzled expression over toward Hogan. "I know this woman."

"Mmhmm. She was here before." Hogan couldn't take his eyes off of her.

"Marie Louise Monet," Klink said, rolling her name out as though he enjoyed the sound of it. He looked at Hogan again. "I tried to help her. To escape." He smiled faintly. "I put Schultz on duty in the cooler."

Hogan chuckled. "Thanks, sir."

* * *

**Epilogue: Mid-May 1945**

Rolling farmland gave way to rich forest as the car wended its way along the peaceful rural roads. Colonel Hogan rolled the window down further. He felt like he couldn't get enough of a taste of the air with its scents of earth and spring… and home. The sounds were also those of peace—the steady chugging from a field came from a tractor, not a tank.

_Schaumburg_, the sign said as they entered a sleepy little town. Hogan turned to his passenger with a quizzical glance. Wilhelm Klink met the glance with a slight smile. Yes, he'd recognized the name of the German town mirrored here in Illinois. Klink had been very, very quiet since they'd left the train station in Chicago, heading north in a rented '42 Ford.

"What do you think so far?" Hogan asked.

"I had no idea," Klink said, seeming more thoughtful than impressed. Well, there wasn't a lot here to be impressed by. Klink's jaw had dropped when he saw New York. He'd gone a touch glum at the sight of Chicago—another great city rising tall and intact, so unlike the devastation in every city in his homeland. They'd missed seeing Cleveland and Toledo, taking the night train from New York to Chicago. Here, though, on the quiet back roads of northern Illinois, leading into Wisconsin, there was little to impress. Only green land and blue sky. Peace and tranquility. Impressive enough, Hogan guessed.

"No idea of what?" Hogan persisted after a moment when Klink added no more.

"That parts of your country looked so much like Germany," Klink said.

Hogan smiled softly. "It's no coincidence, I suppose, that so many folks from there settled here." He glanced at Klink again. "It shouldn't feel too strange to you."

"Hmph!" Klink aimed an accusatory look at Hogan. "I would still really rather go to Palm Springs or Hollywood with all the beautiful Fräuleins going about in scanty bathing suits."

"Yeah," Hogan said shortly, holding back his laugh. "Let's not rush into taking the training wheels off yet." He gave Klink a mischievous look. "You'll blend in better in Milwaukee. If you slip into German now and then, no one will much notice. And keep in mind, Newkirk had never forged a U.S. passport before. It might not stand up to too close of an inspection. You better just lay low and keep quiet."

"Hmph," Klink made the sound again. "No one has asked for our papers since we arrived in New York." He looked hard at Hogan. "You people have very sloppy security."

"That we do," Hogan agreed. He threw a broad grin at Klink. "Nice, isn't it?"

Klink's stern expression broke. He grinned back. "Yes. It is."

He sighed, studying the landscape out the car windows again. "It's strange though," Klink said. "It makes me uneasy and it shouldn't."

"No," Hogan said. "_You,_ it _should_ make uneasy." He flicked a teasing glance at Klink, then let the smile fade. "Me, it shouldn't." But it did. He found himself wary and tense at the train stations, wondering what was missing and realizing it was the checkpoints. On the streets and in restaurants he found himself cautiously checking faces and uniforms.

"It will wear off," Klink told him quietly. "Mostly."

Hogan glanced at him, puzzled, not quite sure what he meant.

* * *

"So this is the place," Klink commented, peering through the windshield with intense interest as they drove into Milwaukee.

"The place what?" Hogan asked.

"The place you asked everyone who seemed to recognize you if they'd ever been to," Klink said.

Hogan chuckled, then turned grim. "It was sort of true in one case." He glanced at Klink. "Remember the Abwehr major, Hans Teppel? Real name, Robert J. Morrison from Milwaukee."

"I suspected as much."

"Really!"

"Yes," Klink said. "Only two people ever complimented my violin playing—the other was you, and only when you were scheming." He glanced into the back seat at the violin case resting there. He'd left much and lost much, but it didn't really matter, he decided.

The Milwaukee streets had an almost dreamlike air for Klink as he quietly watched the city and the people passing by out the car window. The enemy's homeland… Yet, not so different. The people looked very much the same, especially those two plump women in the dowdy coats who…

"Donnerwetter!" Klink bolted upright in the car seat, turning to stare back at the women on the sidewalk. A stoplight, traffic, and a turn down another street quickly lost them to view.

"What is it?" Hogan asked as he checked traffic and made another turn. It was harder driving here, Klink realized—many more autos on the streets.

"I think I just saw…" Klink started then cut it off. "Never mind."

"Saw what?" Hogan persisted.

"Not what, who," Klink amended. "Two women. I swear they were.. I must be imagining it…"

"Who?"

Clearing his throat, Klink announced, "Frau Linkmeier and Frau Burkhalter."

Instead of looking as horrified as Klink felt, Hogan appeared intrigued, and vaguely amused. "Tinker to Evers to Chance," he muttered before adding more loudly, "That would put an interesting twist on an old theory Kinch and I had," Hogan commented.

"You don't think those women could possibly be…?" Klink gave a sincere shudder.

"Who knows?" Hogan said with a shrug. He cast a glance at Klink. "You're here. Maybe this is where they disappeared to as well." He brightened suddenly. "Hey! Maybe you can have another shot with Gertrude. She's probably still looking for a husband."

Klink deeply regretted he no longer had a cooler he could toss Hogan into.

Near the lakeshore, Hogan found a place to park in front of a small tavern not unlike Hammelburg's Hofbrau.

The spring day was pleasantly warm, so they found a table out on the patio and ordered two beers.

"Schlitz," Klink read from the label of the bottles delivered by a plump blond with her hair in braids. He poured his into a mug. Hogan drank from the bottle.

"The beer that made Milwaukee famous," Hogan said, clicking his bottle to Klink's glass in a toast.

"Never heard of it," Klink said. He looked around. It truly didn't look too different here. There were no bomb craters, no sentry posts nor guards. No swastikas. Hogan's was the only military uniform to be seen, that being his brown dress uniform. Klink felt odd by comparison in a civilian suit. Yet it wasn't too terribly different. Children laughed. People smiled at each other as they passed on the street… Yes, yes it was different, he realized. Klink suddenly saw the Hofbrau in Hammelburg as Hogan must have seen it. Even on the brightest, prettiest day there, Klink realized, there had been a grayness, like a shroud, over everything and everyone.

Sipping his beer, Klink watched the people here in his new… well, _home_ wasn't quite the right word, not yet at least. "Yuck," he sputtered into the mug. At Hogan's curious glance, Klink explained, "You were right. The beer is cold."

"My cousin should be here soon. I think you'll like working for him. He's strict and meticulous and has no sense of humor whatsoever," Hogan commented. He gave Klink a wry look. "That is, the cousin from _New_ Berlin," he said. Klink knew he referred to the small town near Milwaukee.

"Any idea what happened to Major Ritter?" Klink asked.

"When last heard from he was defending Berlin from the Russians," Hogan said. Klink heard a wealth of things he didn't say.

"Are you staying here?" Klink asked. "I mean in the States. I still don't know quite where you call 'home'."

Hogan shook his head. "No. I only have a week's leave. Then I have to go back. To Europe. London for now," he said. "I'm still on active duty." He gave Klink a flat smile. "I have to get back to Tiger… uh, Marie, too. There's a, uh… a situation. She's, um… she's expecting."

"Expecting what?" Klink asked.

Rolling his eyes with that patented you-idiot look of his that Klink was so very much not going to miss, Hogan said, "A baby."

"Oh. Oh!" Klink blinked at him. "Yours?"

Hogan dropped his eyes and fidgeted with the beer bottle. "Maybe," he said eventually. "Might be mine. Or any of half a dozen Gestapo and SS bastards. She asked if I—" He took a deep breath. "—if I thought she should get rid of it. You know the way the French Resistance is about half-German babies…" He shook his head. "But she's Catholic, and I don't think I could either…" He trailed off. Hogan looked up at Klink and for possibly the first time in their association, Klink could see right into him; could see complete honesty. "Can you see me raising Hochstetter's bastard spawn?"

"Yes," Klink answered without hesitation. "But it doesn't matter," he added. Looking steadily at Hogan, he said, "It's yours."

With a trace of a smile, Hogan said, "I suppose you're right."

"It's yours," Klink said, as though it settled the matter. After a contemplative moment, Klink said, "I still don't fully understand why you're doing this for me. Not," he amended quickly, "that I don't appreciate it. Staying in Germany now…" He gave a shudder. "But circumventing your own protocols and laws? Why take the risk?"

Hogan gave a small laugh. "Habit. I got used to working my way around everything. Making my own rules. Going through channels is just too frustrating. I already got them to let me keep Kinch on my staff."

"I'm sure your superiors will appreciate this new habit immensely," Klink deadpanned.

"Hey, we could go back and do it the right way," Hogan challenged Klink. "Of course you'd end up sitting in a prison for a couple years, but if you're set on following the rules…"

"I'm sure I'll get over it," Klink cut in. He looked solemnly at Hogan. "Thank you."

"You too, sir," Hogan answered with equal seriousness. "It's been an honor and a privilege to… uh, serve? Yeah, an honor and a privilege to serve with you."

When Klink quit choking on his beer, he looked at Hogan with a twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Hogan. Exactly what I was going to say."

Smiling, Hogan reached his hand over the table. "Good luck, sir."

Klink shook his hand. "You too."

The End

* * *

_Thanks for reading! And thanks so much for the reviews._

* * *

Notes:

The Hammelburg raid to Stalag XIIIB did take place March 27, 1945 with a rescue mission similar to that described here, though the outcome was rather different.


	28. Deleted scenes

These are most of the major deleted scenes and segments from the reedit of "Master Manipulator". For the most part they just stepped through episodes in the series without really adding anything to the MM story, and is some cases going off in a wrong direction (as did the "Klink's Rocket" section).

If anyone would like to use any of these scenes to use in a new story of your own, please help yourself! No need to ask permission (but it would be nice if you mentioned where the segment/idea came from). Copy and paste a chunk from below and make a full story of it, or spin off and use the idea from any scene here at will.

_These scenes have not been properly proofread, nor has the German used been properly checked._

_

* * *

_

Deleted scenes:

* * *

_**Episode 46, "Klink's Rocket"** - -Klink badgers the prisoners with news of London being blitzed. Hogan decides to set up a fake target in England, a rocket assembly plant, to divert the German bombers from London to Leadingham, where an ambush awaits. The lines of dialog used are transcribed from the episode. (This Klink's Rocket section is almost a complete story on its own, but needs more background, setup, and follow-through on the resolution.)_

Kinch shifted to his other foot, wanting details but understanding he couldn't ask for them. "Sir," he said carefully, "Klink may be a fool in a lot of areas, but he's got a real big wish to survive this war and you know he's already been willing to overlook a lot of strange things if it means he stays alive and safe. He doesn't want the Gestapo poking around here any more than we do."

Hogan grinned. "As long as there are no escapes. Yeah, he told me once he'd rather be a live failure. Just as long as he sticks to that and doesn't go getting ambitious again."

-HH-

Ambition was, in fact, the very thing on Klink's mind at that moment. Ambition and success. But not in the way Hogan feared. Sitting at the chess board, Klink turned the white knight over and over in his hands, staring at it, studying it.

Though he'd tried to distance himself from it, the debate-argument-between Hogan and Ritter tonight kept replaying itself in his head. Ritter's points he could have made for himself. The man had quoted the Party-line often. Any loyal German officer could spout those lines in his sleep. It was Hogan's arguments that frightened Klink. It frightened him because he didn't disagree. Hogan had used Hitler's own words against Ritter; argued the same points but from a different perspective.

What I don't understand is how otherwise decent people can go along with the sort of evil Hitler and his gang represent. Are they evil? Or a necessary evil? Or a necessity to return his nation and his people to their rightful place. At what cost? Another phrase slipped unbidden through Klink's mind: What does it profit a man if he gains the world but loses his own soul?

Klink's eyes strayed over to his violin, resting in its case. Once he'd committed an impulsive act that could be-would be-considered treason and, once trapped in it, found he couldn't back out. Not that he really wanted to back out. The price of the trap was high. The price to escape it was infinitely higher.

Standing to pace, Klink tried to see himself honestly; tried to see himself as Hogan must see him. No delusions. Klink played the patsy to an American spy. There. That was the blunt truth of it. He wasn't willing to face the repercussions to himself of revealing what he suspected of Hogan. But what did he really know? Hogan had the ability to contact and pass information to the Underground. That was really all Klink knew, all he could prove. Well, no… he couldn't actually prove even that.

But he also knew Hogan could make people disappear. Blown up. Dead. Discredited. Transferred to Russia. Defected to England…

Hogan could do things. His endless schemes… the strange events…

Could Klink accomplish such a thing? Could he do a thing to fight the evil Hogan spoke of? Could he dip a toe into the well of treason and emerge unscathed?

Maybe he was drunk. He must be to even consider such a thing. Face it, Wilhelm, you're not a hero. Leave that to men like Hogan. Yet there was a clear evil staring him in the face, one he knew about, would like to see ended both personally and for the good of countless others.

General Von Lintzer… When Hogan spoke of hating the SS and Gestapo and their like, 'their like' would include that Luftwaffe General Von Lintzer. Once regarded as a friend, Klink now loathed him with every fiber of his soul. Von Lintzer bragged about his bombing raids to London in a way that turned Klink's stomach. Surely Hogan must have taken pride in, and gained satisfaction from, his bombing raids in Germany, but Klink could not imagine Hogan ever took joy, as Von Lintzer did, in the death and destruction those raids caused. The regretful necessities of war versus the pleasure of the killing. Klink shuddered. It was the measure of difference. It was difference between a soldier like Hogan doing his duty even though it required doing deadly things, and evil sadists doing things such as he'd heard horrifying rumors of the SS doing in their camps. If Von Lintzer hadn't already been in the Luftwaffe, Klink didn't doubt he'd enjoy being in the SS.

Glancing out the window toward Barracks Two, Klink could see the glimmer of forbidden, after-hours light from the locked shutters covering Hogan's window. If Hogan could end a Wehrmacht general and a Gestapo colonel from within a prison camp (honesty here, Klink-you know Hogan blew them up)… If Hogan could entice a Luftwaffe general to defect (more honesty, Wilhelm-who was at the controls of Biedenbender's plane that night?)… If Hogan could travel to Paris and manipulate the Gestapo there (you know you heard his voice and saw him in Gestapo headquarters, don't you?)6… If Hogan could do all those things, and more, could Wilhelm Klink manage to rid the world of one evil general?

Klink couldn't change the world. He wasn't drunk enough to delude himself into thinking that. He couldn't stop the SS. He couldn't end the war. But maybe, just maybe, he could make one small change… For the sake of decency. For the sake of his soul?

-HH-

He pondered it for weeks before he finally concluded he simply could not come up with a Hogan-esque scheme that would accomplish the goal and leave him alive at the end. Then, during one of their chess matches, as he slowly wove his way through one of Hogan's elaborate ploy-within-ploys-within-bluffs-and-diversions, the light flashed on for Klink.

The answer wasn't in chess. It was in baseball. Tinker to Evers to Chance is the play... Evers throws the ball to Chance to complete the play.

Klink didn't need to work out every detail of the scheme. He only needed to point Hogan at it, step back, and try not to get in the way.

"Checkmate," Klink announced with a bit more triumph in his voice that usual.

"Got me again," Hogan admitted with admiration.

"Yes," Klink smiled at him sincerely. "Yes, I did."

Now… how to put the plan into play. How to manipulate Hogan into doing what Klink wanted, instead of their usual reverse…

-HH-

Von Lintzer had been bragging about his latest raid on London at the Officer's Club that day. How much was truth and how much vanity? Klink snapped on the radio in his office. The 'official' news from Berlin confirmed that London was being badly blitzed. Putting on a record of a symphony, Klink put the volume high, then turned the radio low, sat close and tuned it to the BBC broadcast. Impatiently he listened through the scarcely veiled coded messages being broadcast (Was Hogan listening in his barracks? Were any of the messages meant for him?) until the news came on. Somewhere between the news from Berlin and London would lie the truth. Klink sighed as he listened. It seemed Von Lintzer wasn't exaggerating much. London was being pounded.

Flicking off the radio, Klink realized he had it. He had the play.

A snap roll call in the middle of the night should set tempers in a receptive mood, Klink thought, making the men prisoners stand outside far longer than normal while he rehearsed again in his head. Yes... it should do. If he knew Hogan at all, it should work perfectly.

Striding down the steps from his office, Klink listened to Sergeant Schultz's report impatiently. Then, instead of dismissing the prisoners, he straightened to address them.

"Prisoners, from time to time I bring you news of the war of which you are no longer a part," Klink announced loudly. "Things continue to go well for our victorious Fatherland. Our illustrious Luftwaffe not only controls the skies of Europe but, at this moment is introducing London to our famous Blitzkrieg. We were forced to take these extreme measures in order to crush all Allied resistance and bring this war to a successful conclusion for our glorious Third Reich."

Even in the dark, he could read Hogan's reaction in his taut stance. Klink repressed a smile. He could hear the grumbling and the catcalls as he turned and strode rapidly away. He'd thrown the ball. Now, would 'Chance' make the play?

"Some day? Why not now?" did he hear Hogan say?

-HH-

Natürlich... the very next day the 'strange things' started anew. A paratrooper conveniently captured just outside the camp. A hint of Big Information 'accidentally' revealed in the interrogation. Fascinated, for once, to be aware of the scheme as it was taking place, not just stumbling along blindly in it wake, Klink found himself enjoying his role. Who said he couldn't act?

A secret rocket gun factory? And the new prisoner had passed the information on to Carter. They were so bluntly unsubtle, dropping the 'rocket gun' part at his feet, it was hard to pretend they were.

"Hogan, I'm on to your little game," Klink said with a satisfaction that for the first time he really was. Over-elaborate planning, was how Biedenbender had described the Hogan touch. He didn't need to understand every detail of the plot, Klink reminded himself. Just play along.

Then came the piece of the game Hogan didn't know about, Klink thought as he called General Von Lintzer about the information. Hogan would be annoyed, but surely he must realize this sort of information couldn't come through Klink. No, to be credible it had to come from the highest source in authority possible. And for Klink's purposes, that was Von Lintzer.

Poor Carter... Maybe Hogan wasn't the master at schemes Klink thought he was to send Carter into such a position. The poor boy was bumbling his lines, had obviously forgotten the name of the town hiding the secret rocket gun factory. Then the door opened and Hogan hurried in, as though on cue, to rescue the situation.

Von Lintzer, the fool, believed the story. What was the expression? Hook, line, and sinker. Yes, the general believed Klink's thoroughly cowed prisoner would surrender vital information that quickly and easily. Enjoy your flight, General, Klink thought as he retired for the night.

That night Klink slept better than he had in ages.

-HH-

"Do you know what happened in that air raid last night?" Klink demanded of Hogan.

"Now where would I get any information from?" Hogan protested innocently. Hmph! Where, indeed, Klink thought. And did you know before I did?

"Sixty-two German bombers shot down," Klink said indignantly. "Sixty-two, Hogan."

"No." Hogan applied a tone of shock.

"Including General Von Lintzer's," Klink added, struggling to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

"Your friend." Hogan's tone said clearly he knew Klink didn't really care for Von Lintzer.

"Yes," Klink said a touch ruefully. But just barely a touch. He wasn't that good of an actor.

"Must have been those rocket guns," Hogan said. "I told you how deadly they were." They were playing this routine almost as well as their 'thoroughly cowed prisoner' act. Maybe they could team up as the next Abbott and Costello after the war, Klink thought, suddenly understanding that puzzling "who's on first" routine he'd once heard. More baseball. Strange American obsession.

Let's see if Hogan realized Klink knew about his rocket gun scheme from the first moment, Klink thought. "And do you know what I think," Klink said challengingly, "I don't think there are any rocket guns. I don't think there ever were any rocket guns. I think the whole thing was a trap."

"Ssshh… If I were you I wouldn't let that kind of talk get around. People might think you were responsible. You know what I mean?"

"Me responsible?" Damn that Hogan! Had he seen through it?

"After all you were the one that asked Von Lintzer to come here, so if it was a trap…" Hogan let the accusation trail off, the overt threat softened by his obvious teasing amusement. He had seen through it. Damn him.

Or had he? "Well, I, I…. who said it was trap?" Klink fumbled with his lines. "It was just a possibility of a trap. Oh, there never was any trap."

How could Hogan always manage to fluster him so?

* * *

_**Episode 53, "The Swing Shift"** – Hogan & co. work at a local cannon factory which Schultz is supposed to be guarding._

_**Episode 54, "Heil Klink" **– Schultz masquerades as a defector, Wolfgang Brauner, in turn masquerading as Hitler. Tiger and Hogan meet again in this episode. At their greeting, Tiger kisses him on the cheek while he focuses on the defector. _

"Hey. Schultz." Hogan beckoned the guard as he waddled down the steps of Klink's office toward Barrack's Two.

Groaning, Schultz reluctantly approached. "Please, Colonel Hogan. Please… no more. You ask too much. I cannot do any more. I look the other way on too many of your shenanigans. You want to work in one of our factories. Fine. I look the other way. And then it blows up. You want me to pretend to be someone else. I'm someone else. I don't know what happened. I don't want to know what happened. But please. No more.

Hogan scowled. Schultz sounded genuinely pathetic. He did push the poor goon pretty hard, but it was necessary. A cold, cruel necessity… Like resisting the almost overwhelming urge to steal time with Tiger, to take her in his arms, hold her close, take her completely, body and soul... instead of settling for a chaste peck on the cheek while focusing his attention on that slimy sod Herr Wolfgang Brauner…Hogan shook off the thought. No time for that. Cruel necessities, indeed.

"No, Schultz," Hogan said in a more gentle tone. "No shenanigans. But, uh…" He drew Schultz further away from view of the Kommandant's office. Listen, you said your wife works in a munitions' factory in Hamburg, right?"

Nodding suspiciously, Schultz admitted, "Ja." Then more rapidly, trying to backpedal away from Hogan, he said, "But, Colonel, no. You cannot use my wife to… We have five kinder to think about." His voice rose in a panicked whine.

Holding up a hand to stop him, Hogan said soothingly, "Nothing like that, Schultz. It's just… You think she could take a little vacation? Hmm? A few days _not_ at that factory? A week would be better. Somewhere out of town. Maybe visit some relatives out in the country? Could you get in touch with her to arrange that?"

Schultz started to speak, then froze, blanching. He groaned again. "Oh, no… Hamburg? You're saying that Hamburg is going to be…"

"I'm not saying anything," Hogan said firmly, significantly. "Just that it would be a good idea for your wife and kids to take a little trip out of the city _sooner_, rather than later."

His face dead serious, Schultz scarcely resembled the bumbling know-nothing guard they knew, loved, and used. "How soon?" he whispered.

"Better call her tonight," was all Hogan said.

-HH-

The late-July sun baked down on the camp. Most, prisoners and guards, sought whatever scanty shade could be found in the treeless compound, but Hogan, shirtsleeves rolled up, didn't shun the heat, instead standing alone in the full sunlight. Kinch watched him for several minutes from the corner of one of the barracks before approaching.

"Hot enough for you, sir?" Kinch asked as he ambled up.

Quirking a faint smile, Hogan said, "Yeah. Funny, though. I think when I remember this place I'm always going to remember it as being winter."

"I know what you mean," Kinch agreed, "Seems like the winters never end. Even in the summer it seem like I can still see the frost on the windows and snow on the ground." But Hogan didn't seem to be hearing Kinch any more.

"Whatcha thinking about, Colonel?" Kinch asked quietly. Hogan stood near the northern perimeter of the camp, staring out toward the horizon. Kinch knew what lay in that direction, give or take three hundred miles. Hamburg was getting pounded for the second time that week.

"Hamburg?" he added, when the colonel didn't react.

Nodding, Hogan said distantly, "Uh huh. It's a nice city. Pretty. _Was_." He glanced over at Kinch. "You ever seen a firestorm?"

Kinch shook his head slowly. "Schultz said his wife and kids got out in time. The factory she worked at took a direct hit. But they're in Heidelberg. Safe."

Almost as though to himself rather than to Kinch, Hogan said, "Yeah. Safe." He sighed heavily. "The fliers aren't. They're getting picked out of the sky right this very minute. Artillery. Flak. Fighters. Shot up. Burned. Crashing. Most who can't make it back will die. Some will bail out. We won't be rescuing any of them. Too far away." He was silent a long moment. Kinch watched him stare northwards. "I was shot down over Hamburg, you know," Hogan said. "Lost four of my crew."

Kinch held his breath. He knew, but didn't want to interrupt, to break the mood, if the colonel wanted, or needed, to talk.

Shaking his head, Hogan's voice dropped to a low monotone. "Last year, this time, I was in a Gestapo cell." He dropped his head and closed his eyes. Kinch saw him swallow hard, obviously reaching for control. "It looked so hopeless then. We were so far behind. Barely holding them back. I almost believed the Nazis might win. That we wouldn't be able to stop them." He shook his head and looked back up to the horizon. This was a side of their commanding officer he didn't let the others see, and only rarely let Kinch have a glimpse of.

"They're going to lose," Kinch said quietly. Resolutely. Italy was teetering. Mussolini had been arrested just yesterday; his Fascist government falling. The Italians had started negotiating with the Allies. Russia, Italy, North Africa… Promising everywhere, but all still a long, long ways from Stalag 13 here in the heart of the German Reich. "They're going to lose," Kinch repeated.

Hogan nodded. "I know. It's just a matter of time now. And lives."

Pondering a minute in silence, Kinch finally ventured, "You're thinking about something else too, aren't you, sir? _Someone_ else?" He noted Hogan's slightly abashed reaction; the glance at the ground, the faint flush. In the time he'd known Colonel Hogan, Kinch had seen him pursue every female that came into target range. And, he more than suspected, take down more than any POW in as close to a monastery setting as existed had any right to. A "ladies' man" was the polite description. Kinch's oma had a different term for it. Kinch had to glance down and away to hide his twitch of a grin at the thought. Why exactly had the Kommandant so abruptly replaced Fräulein Helga? While the new secretary, Hilda, also enjoyed Hogan's attentions and attempted seduction (or at least Kinch thought it still fell in the _attempted_ category), she was older, wiser, more cynical, and not as quick to succumb as the more romantic Helga had been. "How about a cocktail ring," Hogan had told Kinch he'd offered as a bribe on one occasion when the backlog of owed silk stockings and chocolate had grown too large. "I don't drink," Hilda had promptly countered. "How about an engagement ring?"

Still, for all the women he pursued, and probably conquered, Kinch had seen only one who caused Colonel Hogan to react this way.

"Tiger?" Kinch asked, not keeping the smile out of his voice.

Hogan flicked him a quick grin that just as quickly faded. "She's really not my type," he said with a hint of defiance. "I always liked 'em... softer." His hands made the universal curved woman shape in the air in front of him. "Rounder. Less stubborn. More... compliant."

Kinch choked back a laugh, earning an irritated scowl from Colonel Hogan. "If I may say, sir, Tiger's _exactly_ your type. I've watched you, Colonel. The ones you really like are the ones who stand up to you, irritate you and challenge you. The ones who are just as smart as you and just as tough, and know it. Like Tiger. And it's more than a little obvious you think that... well, that she might be 'The One'."

With a groan, Hogan shifted around, grimacing. "Don't say that. Don't even think it. I was damned careful not to leave anyone 'sitting under the apple tree' waiting for me... And Tiger... I mean... The situation is impossible... Still..." A somewhat dopey grin spread across the colonel's face. "I could see us sitting under that apple tree. A little place in the States. A small town, maybe. In Connecticut. Or Ohio. Maybe on the lake in Wisconsin. Quiet. Peaceful. No war." His lips twitched with amusement. "Going in and out through the front door, instead of through the floor. The basement just being a... basement. Winter nights cuddled up with Tiger. Maybe a family..." He trailed off, lost in his daydream.

"Sir..." Kinch hesitated, then decided it really was best to throw a cold bucket of reality on his commander. It seemed cruel, maybe it was, but letting himself get overly attached to someone, especially a woman, a woman who was a leader in the Underground, could cause the colonel to do things, or take chances that could cost him and them all their lives and the mission. No apple trees for any of them for the duration. So Kinch broke into the daydream. "What's Tiger's name?"

"It's..." Hogan stopped, cocking his head and staring into the blank, blue sky. "Um... It's..." Hogan swore enthusiastically, then glared at Kinch, who dropped his eyes, feeling like a heel. "Damn you, Kinch. It's just a harmless fantasy." Hogan cleared his throat and straightened, squinting upwards toward the blazing sun. "And odds are neither one of us is gonna survive this firestorm anyhow."

"Let's get out of this heat," he added as he turned and strode rapidly away, leaving Kinch to stare after him with a gnawing sense of unease growing in his gut.

* * *

_**Episode 57, "Reverend Kommandant Klink"** - To keep captured French officer, Lieutenant Boucher, from revealing the location of his base to Major Hochstetter, Hogan arranges for him to marry his girlfriend, Suzanne Martine. Klink performs the wedding. This is Hochstetter's second encounter with Col. Hogan._

"I suspect your 'thoroughly cowed' Colonel Hogan," that nasty little Gestapo major hissed at Klink as he sniffed the French pilot's water glass.

Klink cringed. It wasn't like Hogan to make such an obvious move in front of the Gestapo. He obviously believed Lieutenant Boucher really was going to talk and, as ever right on cue, decided he had to step in to manipulate the situation. Even if it meant tipping his hand, so to speak, in front of Major Hochstetter.

"Nonsense," Klink blustered, even as he knew the denial was futile. "I took a sleeping powder myself last night. That must be the glass I used." He had to turn quickly to the door so Hochstetter couldn't see his face. Acting was far more fun when a Gestapo officer wasn't growling (the vicious beerhall thug actually _growled_) and staring daggers into his back. Curse Hogan for forcing this role onto him.

"Schultz!" Klink bellowed into the outer office. "Take Lieutenant Boucher back to the cooler." Freezing, hand on the knob, Klink hoped Hochstetter didn't see the shiver that ran through him. _Right on cue…_ again. Hogan knew exactly when to appear. Again.

His 'baw!" still echoing in the office as Hochstetter slammed out, Klink sank into the chair behind his desk glancing furtively around. A creepy sensation of being watched… no, _listened_ _to_… crawled over him. Hogan knew. He always knew. But how?

_You know how..._ Klink tossed his monocle on his desk and buried his face in his hands. When General Burkhalter had shown up with a radio detector, didn't you send Schultz running to tell Hogan to get rid of his transmitter? Everyone expected prisoners to manage to build or get radios, but a transmitter was something else entirely. A transmitter meant espionage. Yet you didn't doubt for a second Hogan had one when that signal was detected, did you?

The French pilot as an actor... Donnerwetter! Whatever Hogan's scheme really was, apparently Major Hochstetter wasn't seeing through it. Or thought he could outfox Hogan. Hmph! Good luck with that Major. If Klink, with the finest military training in Germany behind him, couldn't wend his way through one of Hogan's convoluted schemes until it was over - and usually not even then - Major Hochstetter, who was really nothing more than a common gangster given an absurd amount of power, had no chance.

Klink didn't need to worry. No. He needed to worry quite a bit, actually. He needed to worry about the Gestapo and Hogan and General Burkhalter and...

...and how Hogan always knew what was taking place in Klink's office.

Where was the bug?

Glancing around his office, Klink abruptly dropped his eyes back to his desk, striving not to look.

He should search. If he couldn't find it himself he should bring in experts and have them search. Experts like the Gestapo. Like Major Hochstetter.

Hmph, again. Hochstetter was a dangerous man. So was Hogan. But Hochstetter was the enemy.

What are you thinking, Wilhelm? Mein Gott... _Hogan_ was the enemy. Hochstetter was his comrade, his countryman, his colleague fighting side-by-side with Klink for the glorious Third...

If Hogan had Klink's office bugged and Hochstetter found it, then he'd arrest Hogan and probably have Klink shot. Undoubtedly have Klink shot. Or sent to the Russian Front. It would be quicker and easier to be shot here where at least it was warm. Hochstetter would do nothing to save Klink. Hogan, on the other hand, had helped save Klink time and again.

With a groan, Klink wondered what had become of his Fatherland when an enemy made a better ally than one of his own countrymen.

He had to get out of his office, at least for a while. Slipping his cap down on his head, Klink clenched his riding crop tightly and strode out. On the steps he almost tripped and fell flat on his face as he missed a step. He had surreptitiously glanced, as he frequently did, at the flagpole over the office, making certain the correct flag still flew. Sometimes it was at half-mast, usually not. This time, however, it was being lowered from half-mast. Only it wasn't the flag that was lowering.

It was the flagpole.

* * *

_**Episode 64, "Some of Their Planes Are Missing"** - A team of Luftwaffe fliers headed by Maj. Richard Leman "Daredevil Dick", plan to use captured Allied fighters to attack England. Burkhalter encourages Hogan to drink and enjoy his time with the Luftwaffe pilots, hoping he'll spill some information to them._

Why did General Burkhalter keep doing this to him?

Now it was a crew of Luftwaffe pilots training for a top secret mission dropped into Klink's care.

Dropped right into Colonel Hogan's targeting sights.

Why did General Burkhalter keeping doing this?

Even Schultz was quicker on the uptake than Burkhalter was, Klink had bemoaned silently, as he had nodded rapidly and agreeably as the General informed him of this next disaster-waiting-to-happen. Being Kommandant of a Luftstalag was supposed to be a quiet, uneventful, dull job, Klink thought as he blurted an occasional "brilliant, magnificent plan, Herr General." Klink only wished it would be a little dull once in a while.

When General Burkhalter left a famous French painting with him for safe-keeping, Klink had been panicked, but not even a trace surprised when, natürlich, it disappeared. He hadn't even argued with Hogan when it turned out to make things right and save Klink, Hogan and the French corporal (Klink right that moment started to think of him as "the Cockroach") needed to go to Paris. Paris! Indeed. Again. Again? Sometimes Klink was certain and sometimes not about the strange goings-on. Sometimes he managed to convince himself he was imagining it all. On the good days. The quiet days. Surely the Senior POW officers at other camps took the occasional outing to France, didn't they?

And there was that slightly hysterical bubble rising in his throat again. Or was it the ulcer?

On the other hand, maybe the General knew exactly what he was doing when he dropped his obnoxious brother-in-law, Captain Kurtz, in front of Hogan. Certainly the general hadn't seemed particularly surprised when Kurtz ended up dead only a matter of days later (Dead? Another one dead with, conveniently, no trace of a body left?). Hogan's tale of the Underground and trains blowing up should have had General Burkhalter handing Hogan right over to the Gestapo. Instead he'd barely shrugged and let it pass. Hmm...

Now this.

_Daredevil Dick_, indeed!

Hogan came in for ping pong balls and flattered that preening fool, Major Richard Leman, with talk about how feared and admired he'd been by the enemy pilots. Made up the tale on the spot, obviously. Of course Leman promptly invited Hogan to a party with his team of Luftwaffe pilots. Stukas in Norway. _Dangerous, handle with care._ Indeed!

It stung, Klink realized, in a way he hadn't expected, when Hogan shut him out of the conversation, playing up to Leman. _A little pilot talk._ While Hogan wasn't exactly a friend, from the very first, Klink had held their relationship as professional colleagues in careful regard. Despite being in an air force camp, Klink and Hogan, as officers amongst enlisted men, were the only genuine pilots. The only two of the elite fraternity of aviators. So, Klink thought glumly, looking at the biplane photo on his office wall, he wasn't exactly up to date in flying the new planes, and he'd never actually flown in combat. Still...

It stung.

Let the pieces fly where they may, Klink decided recklessly. Let Hogan do as he wanted. Klink wouldn't try to hinder. Nor help.

-HH-

When his teacup rattled against the saucer, Klink reached out to steady it without looking up. Buried in his camp account books (both sets), his lips moved silently as he strove to find somewhere, anywhere, he could dredge a few more Marks from the camp funds. More money... _They_ always wanted more money... Maybe it was legitimate, Klink tried to allow judiciously. Or maybe they just knew they had a high-ranking, well, reasonably high-ranking, Luftwaffe officer on the hook and had decided to milk him for all they could, he thought, shamelessly mixing his metaphors.

Clattering louder, the cup and saucer danced across the desk surface. Klink's head jerked up. Everything in the office vibrated from the low rumble outside which grew louder by the second.

As Klink rushed to the office window, the cup and saucer crashed, unheeded, to the floor behind him. Flinging open the panes, a shadow suddenly eclipsed the sun. He gasped involuntarily and drew back. The air raid sirens began to wail. Looking out at the compound, Klink saw Schultz urging the prisoners toward the barracks, but none of them moved. Everyone had frozen where they were, staring upwards like statues scattered across the compound. Colonel Hogan stood in the midst of a loose grouping of prisoners, interrupted in the some sports game or another. He stood still, arms folded over his chest, watching the sky with a fixed expression.

Yanking open the office door, Klink hurried down the steps. "Air raid!" he shouted unnecessarily over the din. "Get those prisoners inside," Klink shouted to Sergeant Schultz threw his hands in the air as he vainly trying to herd the prisoners into their barracks. None of the prisoners moved. Half the guards in the compound stood still amongst them, staring at the seemingly endless formations of planes passing overhead.

"Hogan," Klink called, striding across the compound a bit more rapidly than proper dignity allowed. Donnerwetter, but there were a lot of planes. "Get your men inside at once!" The rumble and the black shadows crossing the camp made him want to cringe away and hide. Yet Hogan stood unmoving, eyes fixed on the sky, ignoring Klink. Hogan wore a curious expression, Klink thought, strangely distant, as though he wasn't really seeing the waves of bombers passing overhead. More, maybe, as though he was seeing the view from the cockpit of one of those bombers.

"Air raid," Klink repeated as he reached Hogan's side. "Get your men inside at once."

Hogan finally stirred, casting a quick glance at Klink. Without raising his voice over the noise, he said flatly, "They're not hitting here. You can cut off the sirens."

Someone else apparently realized no bombs were falling in the vicinity either, for the wail of the air raid sirens stopped. The thunder of the bombers continued, shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

"Where are they heading?" Klink demanded of Hogan.

"Schweinfurt," Hogan said.

Klink looked at him sharply. He hadn't really expected an answer. Was Hogan revealing military information? Or could he just tell where the bombers were headed from their bearing and altitude? Setting up for their bombing run. Schweinfurt… the industrial city only thirty-two kilometers, less than twenty miles, south-east of Hammelburg. The ball bearing plants! They were the targets. Destroy those and the Reich's military industrial production would be hopelessly crippled. "I should telephone ahead and warn them," he said, though he stood as rooted in place as the others, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of hundreds of planes passing overhead.

Hogan shook his head. "They already know," he said, and Klink realized he could hear the distant wail of the Schweinfurt air raid sirens sounding beneath the rumble of the bombers. But it was the dullness in Hogan's tone that caused Klink to shoot another glance at him. Hogan's expression wasn't one of victorious pride, such as Klink would expect to see from him with the sky blackened by so many American bombers reaching this deep into Germany in broad daylight. No, Hogan's expression, Klink decided, was more of a man watching a funeral procession pass by. Curious. Curious, indeed. Then Klink realized…

"Where are your fighter escorts?" he asked.

Shaking his head slowly, Hogan said, "Not enough range to come this far into Germany."

"Then whose are…?" Klink trailed off as the buzz of fighters overrode the low rumble of the bombers. The anti-aircraft guns fell silent as Luftwaffe fighters by the hundreds swarmed over the slower-moving formations of bombers.

"They're yours." Hogan sounded bleak. He gestured skyward with a tilt of his chin. "The B-17s are counting on the box formation to protect them."

It was then Klink remembered Hogan, himself, had been taken down from the sky by Biedenbender's fighters, probably flying in just such a formation. How hard it must be to stand here on the ground, with an enemy officer, his jailer, beside him, watching helplessly as his comrades were being picked out of the sky. Klink's empathy for Hogan swelled, diminishing the sting of exclusion he'd felt over the 'Daredevil Dick' incident.

He should be cheering for the victorious Luftwaffe, Klink thought, as he stared silently at the trail of black smoke pouring from one of the American planes. A parachute appeared. Then another. Klink held his breath. The B-17 tilted over and nosed downwards. No more parachutes appeared. The impact and explosion rocked the camp.

"How many?" Klink whispered.

"Eight," Hogan said dully.

Klink didn't move for a moment, then stirred. "Get your men in the barracks," he ordered firmly. "There will be debris falling." Without waiting to see if his order was obeyed, Klink spun and marched rapidly back toward his office.

* * *

_**Episode 67, "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to London"** - Hogan's friend, British Group Captain Roberts is replaced by look-alike Lieutenant Baumann, who plans to assassinate Churchill._

The decision came after the Gestapo tried to replace Hogan's friend, the British Group Captain Roberts, with an imposter to attempt to assassinate Prime Minister Churchill. Had not Hogan, obviously, managed to switch the two men, Roberts would undoubtedly have been murdered by the Gestapo, just as Baumann tried to kill Hogan with that insidious sleeve gun. Had the plan succeeded, Hochstetter would have probably pulled the trigger to kill Roberts himself, and slept well afterwards.

It didn't used to be this way, Klink thought, not for the first time, pondering long and hard the state of his nation. Hitler had given back the military pride, then set gangsters and thugs up above them. Honor replaced by terror. _Fear isn't respect._ Then there were the rumors starting to emerge about what the SS were doing in their camps...

_What I don't understand is how otherwise decent people can go along with the sort of evil Hitler and his gang represent._

Gulping a schnapps to try to steady the nerves shattered by having his cap shot off his head (again), Klink paced his quarters, pausing now and then to peer out the window toward Barracks Two. It was easier for Hogan. The choice was clearer. Simpler. It didn't mean turning on comrades, colleagues, family, years of tradition, oaths of fealty. It didn't mean turning against friends, people who'd been his fellow soldiers for decades.

Like Hansie Kronman. He'd made his choice, hadn't he? And been shot by the Gestapo for it. And Klink had denied him, denied his friend. But what else could he do? What else, indeed.

Klink's eyes strayed to his violin case, the gentle face of its craftsman clear in his mind even after all these years.

…_a black shadow of evil swallowing everything in its path, leading Germany down a road to ruin that will make the last war-the last defeat-look like a picnic._

Maybe it was Hochstetter. Meeting Hochstetter. Seeing Hochstetter for what he was. A vicious little thug. Having to defer to Hochstetter.

And more...

Realizing Hochstetter wasn't the worst.

_But you believe the Party line? Support and advocate the scheiße the Nazis spew? Serve them and their interests? Tell me how that makes you different._

Hochstetter was his comrade. His colleague. Hogan was his enemy. His adversary.

_What makes you different? _

Klink swallowed hard and, though still trembling and uncertain, made his choice.

* * *

_**Episode 75, "An Evening of Generals" **- Hogan plans to blow up a meeting of German Generals. _

"It is an important and highly secret meeting," General Burkhalter said in his endearingly smug, officious way Klink so cherished.

"I understand, General Burkhalter," Klink agreed without understanding. Always agree with them, no matter what. Generals... Hmph.

"Shut up and listen," Burkhalter snapped.

"Yes, sir. Shut up and listen," Klink agreed, then caught what he'd agreed to a fraction of a second too late.

Burkhalter said, "The conference will begin on the 15th. The night before on the 14th you will arrange a dinner party, a banquet, just to start things off on a friendly basis with plenty of gemütlichkeit."

"Exactly as I would have done it," Klink said agreeably. _Did you catch all that, Hogan?_ he thought. _Are you listening? Of course you are. This one's all yours. You want a room full of German generals handed to you on a silver platter. Well, here they are. Oh... yes! We'll need silver platters for the hors d'oeuvres. _

"Really? We'll go ahead with it anyway." Burkhalter added an extra measure of sarcasm. Klink ignored it as though he was oblivious to the slur.

"I shall make all the arrangements. The banquet. Security. Everything," Klink said. Everything. Including an American colonel fond of strange schemes.

"I will be in Berchtesgaden so the entire affair is your responsibility. I need the cooperation of everybody. Here are the names of the officers who will attend this meeting. For your eyes only. Memorize it and destroy it." Burkhalter said to Klink, handing him the list. Nodding rapidly, Klink laid it on his desk. Secret information laying in the open on his desk… Why hadn't Hogan appeared yet?

"Can I talk to you a minute?" Hogan asked only moments later as Klink and the General stepped out onto the office porch. Natürlich, Klink thought, quelling his twitch of amusement. It was easy to quell as the implication of what he was about to do gave him a matching twitch of fear.

"Can't you see I'm busy with the General?" Klink demanded in a surly tone.

"Sorry sir, it's personal." Hogan insisted. _That's the best you can come up with,_ Klink thought. _Are you slipping, Hogan?_

"Wait in my office" Klink said. He'd left the secret list on his desk. Burkhalter knew that, had seen that, too, but either forgot or was distracted, as Hogan intended, by the prisoners swarming over his car.

"No, no, let them finish. It's a small matter," Burkhalter said expansively when Klink tried to stop the prisoners cleaning the General's car.

A small matter, Klink thought. A room full of generals handed over to Colonel Hogan. A small matter, indeed. It wasn't quite treason, was it? Klink wondered as he paced his quarters that night. He was still a loyal German officer, loyal to his country... Loyal. But the leaders who were leading his nation down the 'road to ruin', as Hogan had called it... Klink straightened resolutely. Let Hogan have his way with them. Blow up the whole room full of generals, if that was his plan when he worked the Cockroach and his other men into the banquet. All gemütlichkeit. Klink hadn't even offered token resistance to Hogan's scheme. He'd be doing Germany a favor if he blew up the whole verdammt room.

Turning to the picture of the Führer on the wall, Klink raised a toast with his fifth glass of schnapps. It was a silent toast, for the words he thought were ones no German dare say out loud.

* * *

_**Episode 116, "The Big Dish"**—British traitor, Lady Valerie Stanford, tests a radar system at Stalag 13. Hogan goes to town, meets with her, then goes soft because she's a woman, and doesn't kill her. She tells Hochstetter about Hogan being in town. (scene never was in the original version of MM):_

"Lies, sir, all lies!" Colonel Hogan proclaimed as Hochstetter escorted him—under arrest—into Klink's office. Natürlich, Klink thought. Just like all Hochstetter's other 'lies' about Hogan. Of course he hadn't been in town, in civilian clothing, talking to the British radar expert, Lady whatever-her-name-was. Klink took another gulp of champagne. It was really the only logical course of action—get drunk and pretend nothing was amiss. He'd back Hogan's claims of innocence as necessary. No one escaped Stalag 13. That fact was undeniably true. "Oooh… movies," Hogan added childishly, moving to peer at the radar screen.

But he got a long, serious glance from Hogan when he calmly offered him champagne. Um… well, so maybe everything wasn't thoroughly in hand. Hochstetter still needed more to take Hogan out of here and he knew it, Klink assured himself. If he didn't he'd have Hogan in chains, and likely Klink too, taking them both out of here. Everything was fine. Hogan would manage to pull out of this dive before he crashed.

Klink scowled and took another gulp of champagne. That woman, though… Hogan tangling with women always had that extra edge of danger and doubt. They were definitely his weakness. Well, Klink added judiciously, whose weakness weren't they?

* * *

_From the chapter where Hogan is injured and Klink is tending him (never was in the original version of MM):_

"You think General Burkhalter is who?" Klink managed a combination of shock, horror, and an edge of hysterical humor. Ultimately, the humor won out. It had a vaguely panicked sound to it, however.

"It's not meant to be funny," Hogan grumbled. He was really in far too much pain, and far too miserable, to tolerate anyone's sense of humor, particularly Klink's. "Burkhalter is Nimrod."

"You're delirious," Klink pronounced. "And insane. The general a British secret agent? Absurd."

"Hey, we had you as a candidate for a while."

"Bite your tongue! That's beyond insane," Klink retorted. "You sound like that nut Hochstetter."

"_Him_ we eliminated immediately. Too naturally psychopathic and homicidal." Hogan said. "Eliminated you about three seconds later."

"But I'm not psychopathic and homicidal," Klink protested, then caught himself. "Nor am I Nimrod," he added hastily.

"So, of all the possibilities, that leaves Burkhalter," Hogan concluded.

Klink shook his head thoughtfully as he sponged off Hogan's feverish face. "No, Hogan," he said. "You're not thinking clearly. I've known the general since… I don't know, 1917 at least. He's as German as I am. He's certainly not British, nor even particularly fond of the British." He hastened to add, "Not that any of us are. Now, that is. No, they're the enemy now." He sounded like he was giving himself his own propaganda lesson. "No… I could no more consider General Burkhalter as a British agent than your people could take you to be a German agent."

Hogan laughed, which led to a spasm of gut-wrenching pain. He coughed, then tried not to. "Bad example," he choked out after a moment. "The British did think I was a German spy once."

"Donnerwetter. How on earth could that happen?"

Hogan paused to get control of the pain again. "Remember that Hurricane I said I crashed in '40?" _[I mentioned this several times—it was part of the set-up for the Coventry-Dresden parallel events which caused Hogan to have a personal 'price' to the war from both sides; no simple 'win' without a serious cost.] _

Klink nodded. "Yes. Let's see, you said there were three, no four, Heinkels…" As Klink recounted what he remembered of the tale, he dipped the cloth in the water and twisted it to ring it out. Hogan fixated on the action. Klink could twist them just like that rag, if he chose, Hogan thought, suddenly, oddly, fearful. Control them. Manipulate them. Maybe he was. Turning his head away, Hogan squeezed his eyes closed. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe Klink wasn't comforting him through an injury, maybe he was torturing him to get information. As he considered it, the thought became more real. Hogan shifted and the searing pokers stabbed him again. Had Klink done it?

The cool cloth touched his burning face again, dampening the flames. "Concentrate, Hogan," Klink ordered quietly.

He was feverish, Hogan told himself. Imagining things. Klink was harmless. He could trust him. At least just a little.

"Keep your mind off it," Klink continued in a soothing murmur. "Tell me what happened when your airplane was shot down. Why did the British think you were a spy?"

_Because I was a spy. Am. _Hogan managed to keep that unsaid. Or so he thought. Hoped. "Just a pilot then. They needed pilots," he whispered, then shook his head, trying to regain some clarity. "Not many…" He cleared his throat, taking care not to cough. "Not many Americans flying with the British, then. We were unusual. Foreign." The spiking heat of the fever diminished a touch. He could feel it. He paused to breathe and consider his words more carefully. Klink waited patiently through the long gaps in the conversation. He probably wasn't listening anyhow, Hogan told himself. Hogan could have talked on about plans to plant flowers along runways for all Klink noticed or cared.

"Go on," Klink nudged after a minute. "Your plane crashed and…"

What was he talking about? Oh, yes. Burkhalter. Nimrod. And being mistaken for a spy. How easy it was to blur the lines. Jump to the wrong conclusions. Maybe Burkhalter wasn't Nimrod. Maybe he was just a… a… a _nimrod_ who kept dropping opportunities in Hogan's lap out of blind, arrogant stupidity.

"Okay," Hogan said, trying to get his story back on track. He ran the events quickly through his head—okay, no classified information in it. "I don't remember any of this," he told Klink. "It was all told to me later. The farmer whose field I messed up when I bellylanded in it, pulled me out of the plane before it burned. Got me out near the road and flagged down the ambulance. Turned out my wingman got the Heinkel that got me and one of its crew had bailed out and came down not far away…"

Klink pulled the cloth away and refreshed it in the pan of water. Hogan stared. The simple movements didn't seem threatening now. Odd.

"So, the English patrol and ambulance crew found both you and the German flier at once," Klink filled in the story in a prompting way.

Where was he? "Right," Hogan murmured, trying to pick up the tale again. It did help; helped to talk about other things, think about other times, rather than to dwell on this ongoing misery. "They got us both in the ambulance. And… uh, I guess the German said something to me. And I answered him."

With a sudden delighted chortle, Klink inserted, "In _German?_"

"Yeah. So all of a sudden, instead of being an honored, wounded RAF pilot, I was a German POW." Hogan managed a faint chuckle without ratcheting up the pain in his middle too much.

Klink frowned. "But couldn't they tell from the uniforms? Or the airplane you were pulled from?"

Shaking his head, Hogan said, "The plane was burning. And my flight suit was covered with blood and oil."

"Huh." Klink settled back a moment, pondering. "So how did that lead to them thinking you were a spy?"

"Well, I'd smacked my head pretty hard against the canopy when the tree stopped me," Hogan said. "I guess I was in and out of consciousness for a while—and thinking none too clearly when I was conscious, it seems. Like I said, I don't remember any of this. But as I heard it later, the next time I came to I heard English voices. So I answered them…"

"In English?" Klink asked.

Hogan smiled. "No. In _American_." His smile broadened a touch at Klink's puzzled frown. "Even speaking English, I very much do _not_ sound British. First they heard me speak German. Then they heard me speak what was to them very foreign-sounding English. So before they even got me to the hospital I'd been promoted from POW to German spy."

With a chuckle, Klink asked, "Surely it was all straightened out at the hospital, though."

"Not right away," Hogan said. "I do vaguely recall people questioning me. They tried both English and some really bad German. And I answered them all the same way." He paused, cocking a questioning look at Klink to see if he'd figure it out.

After a moment, Klink laughed. "Name, rank, and serial number," Klink said. "I can do those from memory myself—Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, 0876707."

With a grin, Hogan said. "Exactly. Same answer every time. The problem was, that's my U.S. Army rank and serial number. They were looking at RAF dogtags where only the name was the same. So…"

"Spy." Klink laughed again. "How did they eventually untangle it?"

"Robbie," Hogan answered. In response to Klink's questioning look, he added, "Group Captain James Roberts—you remember him?" Klink nodded. Hogan noticed Klink's expression suddenly went tight and serious. "When I didn't return to the base, and he heard about this captured spy, he put two and two together. Robbie thought it was hilarious."

"He did not seem to be a humorous sort when he was here," Klink commented.

"Extenuating circumstances," Hogan said. "The Gestapo—Hochstetter—had been working on him for quite a while."

"Mmm…" Klink looked thoughtful. "Yes. Even you were a bit restrained and serious at first. Hmph… for about a day."

"Yeah," Hogan murmured and had to look away. Thinking about Hochstetter and the Gestapo, even in passing, brought renewed jabs with the hot pokers to his gut.

"Hochstetter would have murdered him," Hogan thought he heard Klink whisper.

"Robbie?" Hogan asked.

Klink nodded faintly, then cleared his throat and straightened. Briskly, he said, "So, I also recall you mentioning a certain red-headed nurse. Tell me about here. Spare no details…"

* * *

_**Episode 168, "Rockets or Romance"—**__Hogan meets with Lily Frankel to transmit coordinates on mobile rocket launchers for an air strike. This is the last episode of the series, taken slightly out of order. Near the date mentioned—Sept. 8, 1944—the V-2s from these mobile launchers started to hit England._

**September 13, 1944**

"…they can backtrack those mobile rocket launchers to a general location, but not specifically."

Hogan stood in the dimly lit tunnel, pondering London's latest message. It was the first time he'd managed to climb down the ladders since returning to the camp. He felt better—twinges jabbing him at each movement, but nothing worse. The V-2s had started hitting England several days ago. The V-1s were all but history, with the launch facilities in France now destroyed, so the Krauts moved on to the V-2s sent from mobile launchers.

"…woods are crawling with Gestapo…"

"…radio detectors…"

When he announced he would be the one to make the rendezvous with Frankel and run the wireless, Hogan saw the dark look Kinch gave him.

Between he and Tiger there was no commitment, only a desperate passion, so taking advantage of the time with the lovely Lily Frankel wasn't cheating on Tiger, Hogan told himself. It was reminding himself he was still alive and there were reasons to remain so. Then why did he feel a little guilty about it later?

* * *

**Late October 1944**

When Hogan arrived to Klink's quarters he found the Kommandant trying to pace a hole in the carpeting. Pausing in the doorway, Hogan cast a question glance at Schultz who shrugged convincingly as he closed the door behind him. As it was Sergeant Schultz sent to escort him to the Kommandant's quarters, Hogan hadn't been concerned anything was wrong—there had developed a non-verbal shorthand with choice of guards indicating the direness of the situation. Schultz definitely indicated 'condition green'.

Klink, on the other hand looked like he was on a full 'red alert'.

"What's wrong?" Hogan demanded without greeting or preamble.

Snatching up a paper, Klink handed it to him without explanation. Hogan's eyes widened at the '_top secret_'s splashed across the page.

"A messenger just delivered that," Klink said, then grew impatient as Hogan read and reread. "What's the matter," Klink snapped after a moment, "can't you read unless it's upside down on my desk?"

"Relax, Kommandant," Hogan grated back. He scowled as he reread the order again, then set it down on the table. Crossing the room, he poured a shot of brandy. Instead of drinking it himself he handed it to Klink, who gulped it. Hogan poured him another, then one for himself. He sat back down at the table and studied the order again.

"Relax, sir," Hogan ordered Klink again, "and sit down." He barely noticed that Klink obeyed. "This isn't a crisis tonight." But it could be a crisis soon, he allowed to himself. The order—top secret for the Kommandant's eyes only—was to evacuate the camp, and move the prisoners deeper into German should the Allied forces draw near. Hogan frowned. He hadn't counted on this. Surely by now the High Command—heck, even that nut job Hitler—must see the writing on the wall and know defeat was inevitable.

Sure, they did. That's what this order was really about. The Allied prisoners would no longer be Prisoners of War—they'd be hostages.

"What are you gonna do about this?" Hogan asked quietly after a minute of contemplation.

Klink shook his head. "I don't know." He looked at Hogan steadily. "You understand this is not something I would willingly do."

Hogan nodded. "Then don't."

Standing in a burst of nervous tension, Klink paced the room again. With a humorless laugh, he said, "I may have no choice."

"There's always a choice," Hogan said harshly. "And eventually you're going to have to make one and stick to it. You can't play both sides of the fence forever."

Klink stopped pacing and stared at Hogan with equal harshness on his face. "You think that's what I'm doing?"

"Yes," Hogan said without hesitation. "One of these days you're going to have pick your stand, pick your side, make the decision and stick with it." He stood and moved to stand face to face with Klink, meeting his eyes with unblinking hardness. "Hans Kronman did."

Klink held the look only a moment before he broke away. With a pained laugh, he said, "Hansie Kronman is dead. And what did he accomplish?"

Picking up the top secret order, Hogan waved it at Klink. "This could be a death sentence for every man in this camp. Would you allow that to happen to save yourself?" With a contained sigh and an effort, Hogan pulled back, trying to see this from Klink's perspective. "Listen, Klink," he said more gently, "if it comes to it, just fill in the date on that bar napkin and let me worry about it."

Klink spun toward him, his own expression harder. "Yes. That would solve everything," he said sarcastically. "You go ahead and wave that napkin at the company of SS who's likely to show up to enforce this order." He gave a snort. "If you seriously think you can take on the SS in a stand-up battle, you're mad."

"We'll take them on however we have to," Hogan answered.

* * *

_**Episode 167, "All the Pretty Snowflakes" **__–Second to last episode in the series. Hogan & Co. try to stop a Panzer company by triggering an avalanche. They fail but the avalanche happens anyhow. If you take it apart, this is an interesting episode in that Hogan accomplishes nothing and, in fact, fails—is defeated—in every attempt. Another interesting point that's glossed over in the show is that the Heroes apparently blow up the first truck that was to take them to the snowed-in roads, rather cold-bloodedly killing the driver, a camp guard. A Stalag 13 truck that was supposed to be hauling the prisoners blows up and, what? Just requisition another one and continue on like nothing happened?_

**Early December 1944**

Hogan hadn't expected to take them on with snow shovels, however.

Nor to be handed defeat after defeat.

He so wanted to wipe the smug arrogance off the face of that SS Panzer General Stromberger, yet was thwarted each and every step of the way. Ultimately nature succeeded where Hogan failed, sending down the avalanche to block the tanks' advance toward the Front.

Instead of fighting them, Hogan and his men were hauled back to Stalag 13 in chains, cold and miserable, defeated even though in a way they'd won. Hogan was wretched. His men were wretched. Schultz was wretched. As the shackles were unlocked, Hogan saw Klink emerge from his car, sniffling and also wretched. This whole mission had just lived out the definition of 'snafu'.

"Hogan." Klink motioned him to the side, then sneezed. He tried to look fierce, which was difficult for him at best, harder still with a sniffling cold. "I should leave you in those chains and throw you in the cooler," Klink told him sharply, "until you can be taken for a court martial and then shot."

"What did I do?" Hogan protested. "We didn't cause the avalanche."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Klink snapped. "The first truck, the one that 'accidentally' blew up killing one of _my_ men—" He tapped his chest. "—one of _my_ guards…" He paused to glare at Hogan. "The gasoline tank was intact. It hadn't ruptured. The explosion wasn't from a malfunction." He lowered his voice, though no one was near. "You murdered that guard."

Hogan played a dark look over him. "You're using the wrong word there, Kommandant. This is war."

"I warned you, Hogan," Klink said, still hard. "I warned you time and again I'd stop you if I had to."

Stepping nearer, Hogan said, "That 'guard' was one of Hochstetter's plants. I won't be mourning him." He stepped back a touch, regarding Klink coolly. "And I suggest your report make it very clear the gas tank blew up _accidentally_. Sir," he added sharply.

As Hogan strode away toward the barracks, it occurred to him for the first time that when Klink did have to make his ultimate choice, choose once and for all where to stand, it might not be on Hogan's side.


End file.
